Chess Continued
by Cass Kay
Summary: We can't go on pretending stories like Chess have happy endings.  In this sequel to Chess, things pick up right where they left off...  It gets a bit fluffy, but I promise it actually does have a legitimate plot. :   Reviews are greatly appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

Freddie had insisted on driving her home, and by drive her of home of course, he meant that she could ride with him in his car, chaufferred by some unknown faceless person. Florence sighed, too engulfed in her misery to care about Freddie's relentless romantic efforts. She sank into the luxurious backseat, grateful for the way it cradled her, forming about her as if she were being held by a lover, by Anatoly, the man she had left behind, bound for his wife and family in Russia. As she let her eyes wander out the window and her thoughts wander to Anatoly, she realized that Freddie had been speaking to her for some time now.

"Florence, I just want you to be happy, you know that. I can give you all that you need, I'm not some dirty red traitor that will drop you like last years news, I'm not a commie liar who goes around—" He whined, that is, until Florence interrupted him.

"Fuck you, Freddie!" She fumed, suddenly wide awake in her seat. "I'm sick of you bashing on him all the time, regardless of what he's done or hasn't done! And dammit Freddie, he has a name! If you're going to refer to him so pointedly can't you at least refer to him by his name! Anatoly! I'm sick of it!"

Freddie sat, shocked, unable to move, in his seat, stunned into silence by Florence's sudden outburst. She rarely let herself explode, rarely let herself cross the line from firm and assertive into the rage of furious and extreme. The driver, seeming very much alarmed by the cacophony emitting from the backseat, pulled over to the curb, slightly concerned for his own well-being.

Florence threw open the door, and Freddie actually wondered if it may in fact come free from its hinges, but it held. She sauntered to the boot, threw it open, and removed her one suitcase, her solitary vessel of memories from the last few weeks. Shaking, she managed to begin a defiant trek down the sidewalk, headed in the general direction of her flat.

"Florence Vassy, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Managed a slightly recovered Freddie, striding after the dark-haired woman.

"What does it look like, Freddie? I am walking home!" She screeched, heeled shoes clicking down the sidewalk in a rhythmic conformity.

"You can't walk all the way to your flat, Florence, it's all the way across the city!" the former chess champion protested, attempting to wrench the bag from Florence's clenched fists.

"Yes I can, it's a far better alternative than riding with you!

"All this because I brought up that filthy red—"

"ANATOLY!" Florence screamed, launching the water bottle in her hand at Freddie's head. "HE HAS A NAME, FREDDIE!"

Freddie could feel his temper beginning to rise to meet Florence's, his frustration and loss surfacing, awakening to greet the challenge she presented him with.

"FINE! ANATOLY, THEN! BUT YOU CANNOT DENY THAT'S WHAT HE IS FLORENCE, A FILTHY, TRAITOROUS, COMMIE! HE LEFT YOU, HE RAN CRAWLING BACK TO HIS HOME IN RUSSIA, TO HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN AND TO HIS LIFE! HE DIDN'T WANT YOU!" Freddie shot back, but even as he said it he realized how terrible it sounded, how awful the words blended together into a terrible monstrosity.

Now it was Florence's turn to stare in disbelief, absolutely floored by this jab from Freddie. Sure, he had attacked her through her father before, and through Anatoly, but not directly. The last sentiment continued to resonate in her head, so much so that Florence began to wonder if it was in fact true. _He didn't want you._

Freddie was stark white, a perfect ghost in his typical white livery. His jaw remained agape at his own cruelty even as Florence removed her bag from his possesion and continued to stride down the walk.

Sometime later, he resumed function and commanded the driver to pull ahead a few blocks, to await their return to the vehicle. Then, without further adieu, he took off sprinting down the London sidewalk after the woman he loved.


	2. Chapter 2

It took Freddie quite awhile to catch up with her, but after a few minutes rigourous sprint, he had regained ground and was walking at a comfortable pace about twenty feet behind her. She was marching crisply down the pavement, but it was apparent that she was exhausted both mentally and physically.

"I don't know why you're following me, Freddie, I don't want to talk to you and certainly don't want you to follow me." Florence growled, continuing to walk.

"If you won't talk to me at least I can escort you home and make sure you get there safely." Freddie stated, desperate to acheive forgiveness for his previous comments.

"Well as admirable as that is, Frederick, I still don't want to talk to you and I can make it home perfectly fine on my own. Why don't you go find someone else to harass?"

"Florence, I'm going to accompany you home, whether you like it or not. And… I'm sorry, okay?" Freddie fumbled, running up in front of her in order to see her face.

She stopped dead in her tracks, a mixed expression of boredom and sorrow lining her beautiful face. Freddie spread his arms wide in defeat and guilt, succumbing to his deepest desires.

"Florence Ilona Vassy, I am truely sorry for all of the pain I have caused you, from the moment I met you to now. I am an idiot, a shit, a total fool. I shouldn't have said any of those things earlier, and I just—" He apologized, genuinely remorseful.

"Just stop, Freddie." Florence sighed, massaging her right temple as she always did when stressed. "I appreciate the apology, but I just can't handle hearing any more explanations from anyone about anything right now. All I want to do is to go home."

"Then home is where I'll take you- will you please ride in the car though? You're exhausted." He pleaded.

"Fine, but I don't need you to tell me when I'm exhausted."

"You're as stubborn as I am, Florence."Freddie sighed, shaking his head as he shepherded her into the car.

They rode in silence for the duration of the journey, Florence resting her head on the cool glass of the window, eyes closed in pain, closed to block out the sharp and poisonous world she had become fed up with. Freddie was extremely uncomfortable watching her, observing her agony, and only wanted to make things better, only wanted to gather her up and hold her close. But he could not do either of those things. The woman he loved loved another, and Freddie was not that man. Anatoly was the only one who could relieve her hurts now, and it killed Freddie that he could not.

Upon arrival at her flat, Florence was sleeping. She has drowsed off to the smooth movements of the vehicle, letting it rock her into the welcoming dark.

"Florence… Florence we're here." Freddie crooned, gently shaking her shoulder.

"Hmmm?" She mumbled, barely managing to open her weary eyes.

"You're home."

"Oh, yes. Thanks for the ride Freddie." Florence yawned, opening the door and retrieving her bag from the trunk.

"No problem. And Florence," He pleaded, "I really am sorry."

"I know, I know." She replied, fumbling for her keys.

"Well then, goodbye. We'll…be in touch…erm…I…" Freddie stumbled.

"Goodbye, Freddie." She concluded, shutting the door behind her.

"Goodbye, Florence. I love you." He whispered, even though she had already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Florence heaved a sigh of forlorn relief as she shut the door behind her, exhaustion dominating her entire persona, an overbearing parasite that allowed for nothing other than negativity. She meandered into the kitchen, a worthless and underused facility, a dirty and bare epitome of her outlook on life. Her fingers brushed he once gleaming countertops, now gone dull over time. She had not been here in over a year and a half, since before the championships of '69, not since she had still been with Freddie. She tried the faucet, and to no surprise, it didn't turn on. Making a mental note to turn the valve on later, she wandered through the rest of the flat.

After she had finished her rounds, she was nearly twice as depressed than when she had began. The echoing emptiness was focal in every room, in every abandoned armchair and in every dusty painting. She recalled the warmth, the homey feeling she had felt when staying with Anatoly in his house here in England. It had always felt right with him, and entirely safe, too, the exact opposite of this sad little flat. Leaning up against the counter, she let herself slide down its surface to the grimy floor, emotions welling up within her, taking the form of tears on her prominent cheeks. Letting her dark hair form a curtain around her face, she wept bitterly, in sorrow, in frustration, in loss. Florence had hit a new low.

By the time she had stopped crying enough to examine her surroundings, she found that it had become dark, and upon checking her watch, came to realize that it was past eleven. Too tired to move, she remained as she was, splayed on the soiled floor of her kitchen, laying in a year's worth of filth. The tears just kept coming, and Florence could do nothing to make them stop. She longed to be held, to be touched, to be loved by Anatoly, to be with him in all aspects of life and to never part from him again. She found herself calling out his name in desperation, shaking as she was overcome by her emotions and fatigue. Oh if only Walter D'Courcey could see her now- his whole "It's just a game" speech seemed ridiculous now, here when she was crossing the line into extremity.

"Anatoly… Anatoly… Anatoly…" she muttered, delirious in her tired stupor.

Florence called for him another dozen times, then proceeded to vomit all over the floor.

Disgusted, she rolled over so her back would face the puddle of puke, and promptly fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When she awoke, Florence found herself lying in a puddle of vomit. She vaguely remembered throwing up the previous evening, and as she struggled with the details of the previous day, she vomited again.

"Am I sick?" She wondered aloud, wiping her mouth.

She certainly didn't feel nauseous anymore, and was not displaying any signs of fever or flu. She shrugged and laid down again, still feeling too worthless to move. It was then that she became aware of a visitor in her home.

"This is kind of low, even for you, Ms. Vassy." Walter D'Courcey sneered, nudging her foot with his own.

"If only I could perhaps sink through the floor, then maybe I would be low enough for Global Television's standards." She replied snarkily.

"Still smart, even when you're covered in vomit and lying on your floor." He chuckled, somehow finding humor in her situation.

"What do you want, Mr. D'Courcey?" Florence demanded, still not bothering to pick herself up off the floor.

"I just wanted to see if you had make it home safely, and secondly, I wanted to offer you a job, seeing as you no longer occupy the position of Anatoly's second and personal assistant." He mused, examining his well-groomed fingernails.

"You honestly think I believe you care about me getting home safely? And on top of that, you think I would accept a job from you?" Mr. D'Courcey, I took you for a more intelligent man." She mock-gasped, adjusting her position just enough to see his traitorous face.

"And I took you for a more intelligent woman." He retaliated, not looking up from his hands.

Florence did not reply to this comment, and instead dropped her head back down to the floor and closed her eyes. She honestly believed that if she lay there silently enough long enough, he would just leave.

"Fine, you can stay here in your vomit then if that's what you want to do. I have no problem leaving you here." He offered.

"That's what I was hoping you would do, Mr. D'Courcey. But before I leave, I must ask, is there any news of my father?" she clamored, desperate to hear of her parent.

"None whatsoever." He finished, exiting the flat without another word.

Florence didn't care that he had seen her at her lowest, or that he had offered her a job soley to mock her sorry state, but she did care that there was no news of her father. This entire ordeal had been for his sake, hadn't it? Anatoly had left, defecting back to The USSR in order to release a handful of prisoners, oncluding her father. He said he had done it for her, so why had the actions yielded no results? Florence sank back to the floor, still too depressed to even clean the vomit from the floor or her hair.

Florence didn't move for days, choosing just to lie on the now vomit-encrusted floor. She had no desire to move, no desire to live or to be clean or to ever do anything again. She felt whatever sanity she had possesed slipping away, and she also became aware that she constantly walked the smeared line between conciousness and unconciousness. At some point past her fourth, or maybe fifth or sixth day of surrender, she heard the door to the flat open, and heard a quiet gasp of shock and horror. She did not open her eyes or make any effort to recognize her visitor, but she did allow whomever it was to carry her to the bath and wash her repulsive hair. After her hair was clean once again, she was toweled off and herded into clothing she recognized as her own, from her suitcase. Having now opened eyes that remained blind, she managed to dress herself whilst her caretaker cleaned the mess from the kitchen floor.

She slept for a few hours, and then awakened, this time somewhat functional. Florence sat up in her bed, now curious as to whom was nurturing her. She rose, her body creaking and groaning in protest, and managed to get to the hall, which she traversed to the kitchen. In the kitchen, with his back to her, frying eggs, was Freddie.

Florence sat down at the table without speaking, and stared blankly at her hands.

"Medium, right?" Freddie questioned, busy with the eggs.

"As always." She replied, curious as to his motives for this particular question instead of the more pressing one- what the hell have you been doing the last few days?

"Just checking." He finished, flipping the eggs flawlessly.

Seconds later, he placed a plate in front of her, laden with two eggs, a piece of toast, and half an orange. Florence simply stared at the food, at her favorite breakfast combination. Freddie took a seat across from her, eating the second half to the orange.

"Florence?" He nudged, "Please eat something."

Her mouth was watering, saliva accumulating in her cheeks. She wanted the food, but at the same time felt no need to eat anything. She took a small bite of the eggs.

"They taste okay?" Freddie ventured.

"Yes, wonderful." She mumbled, now shoveling the food into her mouth, unable to restrain her hunger.

He watched her curiously, not questioning her lack of manners. As she finished, he posed another question.

"Would you like some sausage? I brought some over if you want it."

Florence froze, her eyes wide, then departed the table, streaking for the bathroom.

Freddie followed her, concerned, and once in the bathroom, held her hair back while she vomited violently into the toilet.

"What… stupid… virus…. have… I… got… now?" Florence gasped, turning to the sink to rise her mouth.

"Don't ask me." Freddie answered, concern plain on his face.

"This is the fourth time I've vomited since the flight home. It's disgusting." She spat.

"There, right there- you started to sound like yourself again." Freddie smiled.

She did not reply though, and instead turned to the toilet bowl again, and lost more of her breakfast.

There was definitely something wrong with Florence.


	5. Chapter 5

Freddie stayed in Florence's flat for the rest of the week and into the next, attending to her every need and attempting to heal her wounds. She was still very unresponsive, and rarely moved from her nest of blankets in the bed, choosing to stay curled up wearing a shirt that belonged to Anatoly. She vomited occasionally, and even though Freddie tryed desperately to convince her to see a physician, she would not comply. He had hoped that as the week went by she would slowly regain herself, gradually open up and become the tough, smart, funny, and vibrant woman he knew all his life, but as the days dragged on, she seemed to deteriorate further.

She did not cry, or scream, or plan revenge, she simple was. Florence sat, staring blankly into the distance, or she slept. Freddie could not convince her to do anything else, from reading to eating. She did only what she wanted, which seemed to be nothing. Any other friend might have given up by now, but Freddie was determined, he was focused and absolutely set on showing Florence that he would stand by her in any circumstance. He had too much to prove, and too much to lose. He didn't care that he had ignored his obligations working for Global Television, or that he was not shaven, slept on an uncomfortable sofa, or that he was being all but completely ignored. All he cared about was Florence.

However, after a total of eleven days, Freddie was convinced he himself could do nothing else for his former second. In the early morning, after leaving Florence breakfast, he slipped out of the door, off to find someone who could do something.


	6. Chapter 6

She awoke from her restless sleep around nine, as she had for the last two weeks or so. Florence rolled over and yawned, then, actually hungry for once, wandered into the kitchen, presuming Freddie was already preparing something. Finding the kitchen empty, Florence became very concerned. Where had Freddie run off to?

"Freddie?" She called, hopeful that he was just lurking in another room.

No answer.

She sighed, and sitting down at the table, found a plate waiting for her, adorned with two cinnamon buns and an orange. Florence ate her fill and then, for the first time since her arrival home, walked out into the sun.

It was blissfully warm out on the patio, the sun streaming down on her. She sat in her dilapidated lawn chair and stared into the fence surrounding her miniscule yard, contemplating where Freddie might have gone.

Several theories bounced through her mind, the most daunting of those being that perhaps Freddie had grown tired of taking care of her, of attempting to heal her. While Florence would never admit it to anyone, she was extremely grateful for his efforts and of his company, not that they spent a tremendous amount of time together. Just the sheer comfort of having some other person in her flat made her feel more comfortable, even if Freddie wasn't her first choice to have around.

Florence sat for awhile longer and then, in a flurry of fabric, sprinted for the garbage can, where she threw up all of her partially digested breakfast.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she let her thoughts switch to the nature of her mysterious illness. She had not been exposed to any illness in the last few weeks, in fact, she never even got sick. She was very healthy, and could only recall four instances in her twenty nine years of life that she had been this ill. She mused and puzzled for awhile, and just when she had decided she would never know, the realization hit her like an icy wind on a December morning.

She was pregnant, with Anatoly's child.


	7. Chapter 7

Anatoly Segievsky was absolutely miserable. After two weeks home with his wife and children, he was so depressed that he had condensed his activities into three things- playing chess alone, eating (only occasionally), and thinking of Florence.

He missed her terribly, and wanted nothing more than to jump on the next plane to England and make it to her home in time for dinner. Yet Anatoly knew that he was shackled, chained down to his family by his own country. He had once loved Russia, his homeland and birthplace, but after all it had put him through, he began to wonder how much of his love for his homeland had been built on lies and half-truths. His love for Russia had been a deeply powerful thing, the tangible binding point of his soul. He shook his head, chancing a sad smile. It **had **been the tangible binding point for his soul, until something else replaced it.

Florence was the one person he knew he could trust now, the one person he truly loved, the only thing he had left that was entirely, unconditionally his. She had said so herself, the night before the championships.

"_Anatoly, I just want you to know one thing. Whatever happens tomorrow and from then on, I will always be yours. I am unconditionally and entirely yours, and I love you more than anything else in this world." _

A tear sprang to his eye as he recalled her gentle and sincere words, each one a needle-like pang in his chest. He longed to hold her again, to whisper sweet nothings into her ear and to console her, to apologize for all of the madness he had put her through. Even as he thought of what he would say, he could picture her response perfectly:

"_Anatoly, Anatoly, I allowed myself to be a part of the madness long before you. None of this is your fault, it's mine. I'm the idiot who's father is trapped in Russia, not you. I'm the one who dragged you away from your wife and children and home and I'm the one who ruined your life."_

Of course, she would be blowing things entirely out of proportion, taking all of the blame. He would probably also try to take all the blame, and the two of them would just end up agreeing to disagree. Anatoly had decided that was part of love, wanting to take all the blame for your other half. He rolled that phrase around in his head. _His other half, Florence. _ She was definitely his other half- she completed him and made him feel alive.

Anatoly sighed and continued fiddling with his chess pieces. He was unable to think or move them correctly tonight, his mind was far too occupied with thoughts of Florence. He dug into his back pocket and removed a white queen, the matriarch from his personal chessboard he had used in Merano over a year ago. It was with this queen that Florence, playing Anatoly for the first time, had made quick work of him, toppling his kind in a mere ten minutes. He smiled recalling how determined she had been to win, and how foolishly he had let her looks and charm befuddle him, causing him to loose focus, and therefore the match. Ever since that match, the queen had sat sentinel in his back pocket. It was a small piece of Florence to hang on to, a miniscule reminder of her for him to cling to. He sat it upright in his hand and simply examined it, staring wistfully at the small wooden piece as if it would transform into Florence herself.

"If only." He mused aloud, "If only, Florence."


	8. Chapter 8

Spying on her husband, peeking through the door, Svetlana Sergievsky felt very much like a child. Here she was, thirty-four years old, sneaking around to spy on her grown husband. She knew it was wrong, to watch him like this, but she felt obligated and pressured to, as if it was her duty to know him in every way. Yet now she felt as if she didn't know him at all. He had changed, become a new man in his sucess, and now, home at last, he had become something of a vegetable, a monk, a mute. He rarely spoke, rarely ate, rarely did anything at all except fiddle with his chess pieces, rarely even playing a game. Racked with guilt, her heart wrenched and ached for him as he spoke to the white queen from his pocket. Svetlana knew he loved her, knew that she was the one he trusted, knew she deserved him, and knew Anatoly deserved her as well.

Svetlana sighed mentally, not wanting to alert Anatoly to her sneaking. Guilt predominant in her mind, she began to wonder if she should spill her own secrets to him, freeing him of his chains. In all actuality, she was quite surprised Anatoly had not drawn the conclusions himself sometime in the last six years, that he had not noticed that neither of his children looked or acted like him, nor did they feel any bond with him, for in reality, neither of the girls were his children. Svetlana was tourtured daily by these dark skeletons of her past, knowing that she had taken advantage of Anatoly's good nature and unwavering trust in her.

The true parentage of both of her girls, Melena and Gabrielle, involveda long and explicit affair between Svetlana and another chess elitist, the USSR's very own Demetri Viigand. Back then, Anatoly had been an up and coming chess champion, not quite at the world-renown level, but focuses enough that he might have been, Demetri was Anatoly's longtime playing partner, a laid back and intelligent man, always willing to listen to Svetlana's woes. She had been a young wife then, hurt and neglected by her career-driven spouse and left to do what she will. Soon after Anatoly had departed for his first chess tournament in England, Svetlana and Dimitri furthered their relationship, and the rest was simply history.

Now, Viigand was also a chess athlete, a mechanical, focused, driven, chess playing monster. Svetlana blamed this conversion into the realm of focused chess on Demetri's jealousy of Anatoly's great success, a series of events that distanced Viigand from her and their children. He knew of course, that both of the children were his, but under a direct threat from Svetlana, would never think of informing them of their pedigree.

She glanced once more at her tortured husband, who was now actually challenging himself to a match, and then departed, down the hallway to the room of her daughters. Watching them sleep, she was reminded of a time when, as new parents, she and Anatoly would watch them sleep for hours at a time, whispering quietly to each other, admiring their beautiful children. Svetlana shook her head to clear her thoughts.

It wasn't a happy memory anymore.


	9. Chapter 9

Freddie could still not believe what he was doing. He had only ever begged once, and that was to Florence, asking her to take him back, just a few weeks ago actually. That was a painful enough memory, and this was going to be worse, much worse. He frantically searched over his desk, which was nothing more than a tremendous pile of papers on an undersized table. It had to be here somewhere, just the one number, that's all he wanted. Couldn't things be easy just once?

After a considerable amount of digging, Freddie triumphantly grasped the scrap of paper he searched for: a small blue scap with the phone number of Anatoly Sergievsky on it.

He sat down, exhausted after another uncomfortable night's sleep. Freddie stared at the paper for a few minutes, attempting to gather his thoughts enough so that he would know what to say when he did speak to Anatoly. He picked up the phone and calmly began speaking to the operator about placing a call to Russia, and within a few more seconds, the phone was ringing.

Anatoly barely even noticed the phone ringing, he was much too deeply absorbed in a game of chess with himself. Svetlana, however, was quite literally doing nothing in the kitchen, and leapt at a chance to do otherwise.

"Hello?" Svetlana questioned, regaining her regal air and voice.

"Uh, Hello, is Anatoly Sergievsky there?" Freddie asked, sounding very much like the shy, nine year old schoolboy he once was.

"Yes, just a moment."

Svetlana carried the phone into Anatoly's study, curious as to whom was calling.

"Anatoly, someone's on the phone for you." She offered, presenting the phone.

Not looking up from the chessboard, he replied "I don't care, tell them to leave me alone."

"Anatoly does not wish to be bothered right now." Svetlana relayed into the reciever.

"Tell him it's the total shit, and he has some important things to discuss." Freddie growled impatiently.

"I beg your pardon!" Svetlana recoiled.

"Just tell him, exactly as I said."

Svetlana passed on the message, feeling slightly silly in doing so. She was now even more interested in the caller.

Upon recieving Freddie's message, he abruptly stopped and stood up.

"Here, I'll take that." He said, removing the phone from Svetlana's soft hands and motioning her away.

Naturally, she only retreated to her usual place outside of the door.

Anatoly sat down in his favorite armchair and spoke in a low hiss into the reciever:

"Freddie, what the hell is going on?"

In England, on his end of the conversation, Freddie heaved a massive sigh of relief- he had finally connected with Anatoly.

"Listen, Anatoly, before I begin I just want you to know that nothing between us has changed and I am not doing this for me, got it?"

"Sure, whatever you say." Anatoly clamored.

"Alright, here's the deal. You have got to come over here and see Florence."

Anatoly's blood pressure rose, and he leaned forward in his seat, and Svetlana, noticing this posture change, instinctively leaned in towards the door.

"Why, what's wrong, what's going on?" He demanded.

"She's barely eating, hardly sleeping, she's throwing up all the time, and she's totally unresponsive. She's depressed beyond the point of normal, and there's nothing I can do for her, I've tried. When I first went over after I dropped her off at her flat, she had been laying on her kitchen floor for six days, coated in her own dried vomit. She's slipping away, Anatoly, and I'm afraid that she'll be gone for good if you don't do something. She needs you, literally, she's become nothing without you." Freddie spat out, quickly and distinctly, the concern very apparent in his voice.

"But I can't just fly on out of here, Freddie, I need a reason, they won't let me leave. After the last championships and my defection back here, they watch us all very closely." Anatoly communicated, clearly troubled.

"Well you need to figure something out, Anatoly. She's going to lose herself completely soon. When you figure it out, give me a call, I'll do whatever it takes to get you here, for Florence's sake." Freddie blabbed, his mind running just barely faster than his mouth.

"I will. I have to. For Florence." Anatoly agreed.

"I'll be hearing from you then. Good luck." Freddie finished curtly, hanging up the phone.

Anatoly sat the phone down and sighed, running his fingers through his dark curls.

How was he going to get to her?


	10. Chapter 10

Svetlana entered the room silently, in a reverent procession so as to not alarm Anatoly.

"Anatoly…" She began.

"You were listening, weren't you?" he asked, although not accusingly so.

"Yes, and while I obviously could not have heard what Mr. Trumper said, I've gathered that Florence is in some kind of trouble that requires your attention."

"That would be one way to put it, yes." He sighed.

"Anatoly, we need to talk." Svetlana whispered, finally decided on admitting her guilt.

"We are talking." Anatoly pointed out.

"You know what I mean." She retaliated, reaching out to put her hand on top of his own.

"Okay," he exhaled, "what's going on?"

"You don't have to stay here, you don't deserve to be chained here, not under these circumstances. I shouldn't have ever done it to begin with, and I should have told you sooner, but the fact is….the girls aren't yours. There's nothing tying you down here." She chattered quickly, guilt covering her like a thick quilt.

"What?" he replied, almost silently.

"The girls, our daughters, neither of them are yours. They're Viigand's. We had an affair for years, Anatoly, ever since your first tournament in England." Svetlana whimpered, crying slightly. "I'm so sorry, Anatoly, I'm a horrible wife, I know, but I was so young and naive, and I just didn't know what to do and well…"

"He knows they're his, too?"

"Yes."

"Svetlana, " he began, taking her shaking hands in his own, "it's okay, you made a mistake, and now I guess we're even. We've both had affairs and we've both loved another like a spouse for years."

"I just, betraying you like that, knowing that our own children aren't who you think they are, knowing that they were the only thing making you stay…" She sobbed.

"We'll figure this out, Svetlana, we can make this work."

"No, Anatoly, it's already figured out. I'll publicly announce the children aren't yours, and that they're Viigand's, and you can divorce me and go to her." Svetlana cried.

"What about Molokov?" Anatoly mentioned. "He'll be furious, and he may try to harm you or the girls."

"Not if I make it clear that Demetri Viigand is the father and that I have been betraying you for years. He wouldn't dare touch the girls, I already pushed him once, didn't I?"

"You can't announce it now though, it's too soon for this, and I need to be out of the country first." Anatoly said.

"I already thought that one out."

"And?"

"You go to Molokov, complaining that you still have valuable assets in your home in England, and insist on collecting them yourself. Play the stuck up champion for once." She offered.

"But—" Anatoly began, still unsure about the entire idea, as well as still mulling over the fact that neither of the girls were his. As much of a load as it was, he wasn't extremely surprised, he had always felt a tug at the back of his mind about their parentage.

"No buts. You have to go. You've been miserable since you got home, a lost and broken man. You need her just as much as she needs you, Anatoly. This is your chance for a happy ending."

"I… don't know how to repay you, Svetlana. I can't lie to you and say I wish that none of this would have ever happened, that I would have never found chess or Florence, but I can say that I did love you once, and will always for what you're doing for me now. Someday I'll repay you, I'll figure out a way to make sure you are compensated. You deserve happiness too, you know."

Anatoly was sincere in his words, Svetlana could see that. She was tearing herself apart, but at the same time she was setting herself free, as well as Anatoly. Perhaps she would be presenting Viigand with a second chance as well. Maybe he would redeem himself, come back to her and their children.

"Goodbye, Anatoly….I…" Svetlana muttered, inable to formulate a full thought.

"Goodbye, Svetlana." He replied, kissing her on the forehead and pulling her into a tight embrace, one that communicated all the conflicting emotions he was feeling, straight into her own flesh.

Without another word, Anatoly turned from her, placed the white queen back in his pocket, and then left to gather a few choice belongings.

And then Svetlana wept.


	11. Chapter 11

Florence was getting dressed, on her own for once, hurredly throwing on whatever she could find. Making sure to brush her teeth first, then hustled out the door and onto the sidewalks of London. She had no idea what day it was, so she could only hope that the woman she was seeking would be available. The woman she was so desperately hunting was the closest thing the had to a mother, the closest human connection she had aside from Anatoly and Freddie, if you even counted him these days. Margaret Lakatos was fellow refugee from Hungary, one who had taken pity on Florence and raised her as her own.

Florence wasn't sure if her theory as to her condition was correct, but she knew that Margaret would be able to discern a diagnosis, whatever it was. Margaret lived in a small apartment above the bakery she had owned since her emmigration to England, the very same apartment in which Florence had spent much of her childhood. Florence had been forced to live in the orphanage, and Margaret, being a single woman, was prohibited from adopting her, so instead, Margaret had offered her a 'job'. She swept the floors and assisted in baking, along with performing other household chores. The bakery was also where she had finally learned to play chess again.

In Hungary, her father, Gregor Vassy, had been teaching her to play the game, even though she was a mere five years old. He saw her potential, her clear intelligence that shone through all of her. Gregor saw the determination, her persistence, her smooth tactic, and her passion. Yet also he saw her optimism, her willing trust, and her strong positivity that he hoped would never be crushed, yet knew would. As the revolution broke out in the streets that fated night in 1956, he had asked her to do one thing: to never give up any fight, to never stop seeing the good, and to never abandon all hope. Recalling that memory now, Florence felt smothered in guilt, for the had given up multiple fights, become a cynic, and abandoned all hope in several situations.

Thus Florence the cynic strode down the walk in a sulk, dragging her feet as she walked. It was a short distance to Margaret's apartment, only five to ten minutes on foot. Florence had purposefully chosen a residence nearby so she could keep an eye on the woman as she aged, for even in her clear minded state, her physical health was deteriorating very quickly. Just three years ago Florence had to abandon Freddie on a chess tour in France when Margaret had fallen down a flight of stairs and fractured her hip. Nursing her had taken weeks, but Florence hadn't minded, she loved the crazy old bat too much.

Looming ahead was the street on which the bakery was located, and as Florence turned onto it, a cold shroud of concern began suffocating her. What if she was pregnant, what if she was sick, what if there was something even worse wrong with her? She was becoming dangerously close to having a panic attack, and had to stop her walking to retain her composure. As she walked down the last bit of sidewalk to the brick edifice, she was still brimming with worry and was already having difficulty formulating what she would say.

Before she even had a chance to knock on the door, it swung inwards, revealing the round and wrinkled face she so desperately longed to see.

"I saw you out the window walking down here, and you look serious, Flo." Margaret confronted, hands on her plump waist.

"Hi Aunt Mag." Florence greeted, ignoring the woman's previous statement.

"Honey, after what you've been through in the last few weeks, I was expecting you to fall crying into my arms. Quit pretending and get over here." Margaret commanded, her arms wide and welcoming.

The old woman knew her too well. Florence stepped inside and collapsed in the woman's embrace, weeping like a small child. Margaret stroked her hair as she always did when Florence was upset, occasionally whispering 'shh' and 'it's okay, Flo'. Margaret was the only person who was permitted to call her Flo, and was also adamant on only calling her as such. After a brief bout of tears, Florence reammerged from Margaret's shoulder, sniffling.

"Alright hon, I know about all of it from your letters, and from what I've seen on the tele, even if it's a bunch of shit. But there's something else, isn't there?" Margaret questioned, leading Florence into the bakery and sitting her down at a table.

"Mag, I don't know for sure, but…"

"Flo, you can tell me anything." Margaret expressed, grasping both of Florence's trembling hands in her own.

"I…I…I think I may be pregnant, Mag." Florence breathed.

"From Anatoly?"

"Yeah…"

Margaret studied Florence for a moment or two and then continued.

"Why do you say that?" The baker asked.

"Well, we have been… uh… together… for the last year, and uh… I've been really sick and stuff…"

"Flo, you could just be sick, you know."

"I know, but this has lasted for weeks, and just the mere mentions of some food set me off…" Florence explained.

"You missed your bleeding?" Margaret presented, not really a question.

"Yes." Florence returned.

Margaret stared at Florence some more, examining her with such ferocity that Florence thought she would see right through her.

"Flo, I think you're pregnant. You have that look about you, and all the signs make sense." She said flatly.

That was confirmation enough for Florence. She sat stunned for a moment, thoughts racing through her head.

"What… what am I going to do?" Florence pleaded, eyes brimming with tears once more.

"Oh honey, you'll figure this out, come here." Margaret shushed, gathering her unofficial daughter up once more.

As she let the tears spill from her eyes, Florence wondered how she would be able to handle a child when she still felt like so much of one herself.


	12. Chapter 12

Anatoly Sergievsky typically hated using the phone. It was far too impersonal, far too unclear and far too easily misunderstood. Being a man who liked to communicate with body language, he often found it difficult to have a conversation with anyone on the phone. However, on this particular evening, it would be playing to his advantage. Sitting at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of Alexander Molokov, his former manager.

"Molokov." The answer came.

"Mr. Molokov, it's Anatoly Sergievsky." Anatoly began.

"Anatoly, what can I do for you?" Molokov replied, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Well Mr. Molokow," Anatoly answered, doing his best to sound haughty, "it has come to my attention that I still have many valuables in my home in England, and I wish to retrieve them personally, seeing as there is significant monetary value within the mentioned possesions."

"Oh yes, understandable indeed…"Molokov mused, clearly suspicious.

"I want the next flight out of Russia to England, Mr. Molokov. There could be English bastards rooting through my prized possesions at this very minute."

From his comfortable home in St. Petersburg, Molokov grinned. He saw what his champion was playing at, and he had already formulated a plan to use it against him. He would wait for Anatoly to enter England, and then make a press claim that he was leaving his wife and children yet again.

"I think we can manage that, Mr. Sergievsky." Molokov plotted. "We can arrange to have you picked up at your home in….a half hour or so, can you be ready?"

"Yes, of course. I will be anxiously awaiting the car." Anatoly replied curtly.

"Half an hour." Molokov finished, hanging up the phone.

Anatoly frowned, concerned about how well Molokov had taken his proposal. He assumed Molokov had seen through his motives, and was already plotting some sort of evil plan to ruin his attempts. He prayed, despite never being a religious man, that Svetlana would come through on her end of the deal, and hopefully before Molokov released whatever madness he had planned.

He had to get to Florence.


	13. Chapter 13

At last, Freddie was on his way back to Florence's flat, where he assumed she would be curled up sleeping. He had with him a whole bag of oranges for her, along with a bottle of her favorite red wine, in a sort of apology for clearing out without leaving a note. The day had matured into a fine afternoon indeed, and Freddie wondered if he would be able to persuade Florence to go on a walk with him. Yet, as he approached the flat, he noticed that the windows were all flung open, curtains billowing in the wind. Slightly alarmed and significantly confused, Freddie hustled to the flat.

"Florence?" He called as he entered, careful not to drop his load.

"In here, Freddie." She answered, her voice emanating from the sitting room.

And there she was, knees drawn up to her chest, warm air swirling around her. She looked like a broken angel to him, a perfect vision of beauty, shattered internally beyond repair. Freddie also took notice that she had bathed and put on her own clothes, rather than continue to don the old shirt of Anatoly's she had taken to wearing 24/7 for the last few weeks.

"What are you doing, Florence?" He asked, a bit to edgily.

"Sitting. Thinking. Waiting. Wishing. Remembering. What are you up to?" She replied, in a voice that almost belonged to the fierce woman he once knew.

"I… uh….had some errands to run… and… I… are you hungry?" He tripped, still struck by her strange mood shift.

"Yeah, actually I'm starving." Florence said, laying a hand on her stomach.

"Okay, I'll whip something up and bring it in here. Give me just one second."

"One." She counted, daring to grin at him from under her veil of dark hair.

Freddie couldn't help but smiling too. He held out the wine and oranges he carried.

"There. Told you I only needed one second." He retorted, pround of his own genius.

Florence smiled, but this time Freddie noticed that it didn't reach her eyes. She was trying, sincerely trying to be grateful for him, he could see that, but he also could see that she was no where near stable or happy.

He dropped down to the floor beside her and offered her an orange, which she took and began to peel. Freddie yanked the cork from the winebottle barehanded, a skill he had long showcased. He took a swig, not even bothering with glasses, and offered her the bottle.

"No thanks, Freddie, I don't want any wine." Florence waved, continuing to peel her orange.

Freddie was taken aback. Florence usually leapt at a chance for fine wine, and this was her favorite bottle by far.

"But Florence, it's your favorite, see?" He protested, indicating the label on the bottle.

"Yeah I know, but I just don't want any." She said firmly.

"Okay, suit yourself." He finished, taking another drag from the bottle.

They sat in silence, eating, and in Freddie's case, drinking. Florence continued to seem distracted, distant, even worried, something whe had abandoned as of late.

"What is it?" Freddie said, finally shattering the silence. "You're different today, what happened?"

Florence shifted uncomfortably, turning to look Freddie in the eye.

"I went to see my Aunt Mag today."

"Really? I'm surprised you…you know…left the flat. What did you go see her for?" Freddie blurted.

"I went to ask her about my illness, Freddie. About why I've been sick." She said quietly, her gaze now dropping to the orange in her hands.

"And… what did she say? Did she know what you have?" He asked, oblivious to the obvious.

"Freddie… I'm pregnant."

Freddie halted mid-chug on his current drink of wine, both incredulous and horrified.

"What?" He gasped.

"I'm pregnant, Freddie."

Freddie was too stunned to even move. He simply sat, gaping at Florence, unable to complie any sort of complete thought.

"Say something, Freddie, don't just look at me like that." Florence pleaded.

"I… I… Florence…that's…uhhh…" He fumbled, unsure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing for her.

She ignored his lack of words and continued on her own.

"Freddie, what should I do? I don't know, I just… do I tell him, or don't I? How do I keep this away from the press? And how the hell I am I going to raise a baby?"

Florence looked even more the forlorn angel now, tears begining to stream down her cheeks in silence. She massaged her right temple and pulled her hair from her face with her left. Freddie didn't even know what he should think of this development. One part of him screamed at him to scoop her up, to be the stand-in to the hero she so desperately needed. Yet another part of him whispered the undeniable truth before him: It's _his _child. It's _Anatoly's_ child she's carrying, it's _his_ love that she wants, not yours. She chose _him_, and now she's proving it, by having _his _baby_. _Should he be angry? Jealous? Sympathetic? Questions rattled in his head like nails in a workman's pockets, sharp and cold.

"Freddie," Florence sobbed, now letting full-fledged tears streak down her face, "I know it's terribly unfair of me to ask you this, but could you just hold me for a moment? And just tell me everything is going to be alright?"

Her broken face was enough for him, but the words were too much to bear. Freddie slid across the floor and wrapped his arms around her.

"Everything is going to be alright."


	14. Chapter 14

She was a horrible person for doing that to Freddie. Florence sat, disgusted with herself, on her tattered couch in the sitting room, her thoughts whirling and slipping around in her head, unorganized and unstructured. How could she allow herself to break, to allow her to inflict any more pain on him, especially after all he had done in the last few weeks? Florence was sending him too many mixed signals- she was torn to pieces about not having Tolya here beside her, weeping and mourning, but then she was asking him to hold her and sobbing into his arms. She dearly hoped that he had enough sense to see that her words were the truth- that she just needed a shoulder to lean on, someone to be there for her until she learned to stand alone, without Anatoly.

It was as if Florence could feel her heart shatter into a million pieces everytime she said those words: _without Anatoly. _How she yearned and ached for him, just for a simple touch, for the brush of his hand on her shoulder. Florence now placed her own hand on her shoulder, physically touching his absence. Sighing, she turned to gaze out the window once more.

It was a beautiful spring day, a glorious afternoon in which there was both sun and cloud, a perfect combination of the stark white and the brilliant blue. Florence looked apon it for a moment of two and then turned away, wishing she too could be so brilliant and beautiful. Then, as if to counter the vivocity of the day, she chose a novel, dark and tragic. From the shelf she removed Wuthering Heights, one of her favorite books of all time, not caring that it ended in a terrible, gut-wrenching manner. However desperately she tried to become engrossed in the book, Florence found that there was no way her thoughts would not stray to Anatoly, or to Freddie, or the baby. Even Svetlana drifted into her musings, a stoic threat as to what Florence might become: a lonely and abandoned mother.

Pulling up her shirt, she examined her stomach. It was pale, no surprise there, but now that she actually saw it, Florence thought that there was possibly some sort of bump. How many weeks had it been now anyways, four?

"It's just you and me." Florence whispered aloud to her belly.

Florence had called a doctor earlier in the day, and made an appointment for the following week. It was that appointment that she most feared, to admit the brutal shame in carrying an illegitamate child. She considered asking Freddie to accompany her, then slammed it down, kicking herself.

_No, Florence, you idiot. You can't drag him into this, you've already hurt him enough. _

Florence replaced her shirt, smooting out the creases and wrinkles that had formed there. How was she going to manage? How would she survive rearing a child, her child, Anatoly's child, alone? Sighing yet again, she reclined on the sofa, massaging her right temple in anxiety. Florence simply sat and listened to the wind whipping through her flat, allowing it to soothe her with its soft music, causing her to slip into a deep and blissful sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Anatoly was just outside of the airport now, making his way to a phonebooth just down the block. He hadn't had a chance to phone Freddie until now, and he hoped frantically that the American was home to answer his telephone.

As Anatoly approached the booth, he removed the coins needed from his pocket, along with the slip of paper on which he had scrawled the appropriate phone number. He crammed into the booth, suitcase and all, and shuffled about a bit, posititioning himself so that he could face the street whilst he placed the call, so that he could keep a lookout for any unwanted persons, namely, agents of Molokov and the press.

Anatoly inserted the coins, dialed, and then held his breath.

"Hello?" Freddie answered, on the first ring.

"Freddie," Anatoly exhaled, relieved to hear his growly tenor voice for once. "It's Anatoly."

"Anatoly! Where are you?" Freddie demanded excitedly.

"In London, I just got in. I'm at a phone booth just down the block from the airport terminal."

"Oh thank God. I know just where you're at, I'll be there in ten minutes." Freddie spewed, hanging up without even saying goodbye.

Anatoly frowned, confused as to Freddie's strange emotions, but dismissed it as just another strange aspect of Freddie. So he gathered up his belongings and made his way from the phonebooth, choosing a spot on a lonely wooden bench near a shop of some sort.

And there he waited.


	16. Chapter 16

Freddie was racing, quite literally. He was even going as far as pretending he was competing with the vehicles around him as he drove, westward towards Heathrow. Traveling at over twenty miles over the speed limit, he was nervous that he would be pulled over. He was amazed that he had even summoned up the courage to drive in London without a liscence, but his driver had requested the day off and was somewhere in the countryside, enjoying a weekend with his family. As he rounded each corner and passed each regal London edifice, he wondered how Anatoly would take the news. Accompanying that question was the great quandary of whether he should tell the dark-haired Russian himself, or wait for Florence to drop the bomb on him.

He zipped in and out of traffic, carefully negotiating other automobiles as he passed them to get closer to Anatoly. It was kind of ironic, to tell the truth, that he was endangering himself in multiple ways to get to the one person that at one point, he had despised more than anyone in the entire world, or rather, universe.

_It's for Florence._

He continually reminded himself of that, of the true purpose of his infinite efforts. Freddie loved Florence, with all of his being, his heart and soul and everything else in between. At one point he believed that she had loved him too, or at least that's what she had told him, but now in the wake of Anatoly, Florence could no longer reciprocate the feelings, and Freddie was left feeling terribly alone, discarded, with only his chess pieces as company.

He smiled bitterly. If only it wasn't for the blasted game. Chess. Freddie almost spat the word out now, as if it was a dirty, foul curseword that was reserved only for something you detested more than anything imaginable. He had loved the game, as he still did, and he had let that love of the game override his love for Florence, and he had barely failed to notice the wedge it drove between them until it was too late.

Freddie had to constantly remind himself that she had left him, that he had driven her away, especially recently when it sometimes seemed as if they had gone back into the past, to a time when he cared for Florence as he did now. He winced as he remembered her words as she left him, as his manager as well as his lover. Granted he had provoked her, she still had responded in a way that tore him to pieces more than anything else.

"_Who'd ever guess it? Such a squalid little ending, watching you descending, just as far as you can go. I'm learning things I didn't want to know…"_

He shook his head and returned his full attention to the road, only a few blocks from his old chess-playing enemy. Freddie drove with a ferocity like a man possesed, and in no time at all he was parked at the curb in front of Anatoly.

The American unlocked the car and beckoned The Russian in, a mutual disgust settling in the vehicle, a grave plague on the land.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hello, Freddie." Anatoly greeted, attempting to at least create a fassaud of friendliness.

"No need to pretend, Anatoly. We both know we hate each other."

Anatoly frowned. "I wouldn't go as far as say I hate you. I just strongly dislike you. But I do respect you greatly for what you have done and are doing. For both chess and Florence."

Freddie was struck dumb for a moment. He should have expected such a chivalrous statement from Anatoly, and while on one hand he wanted to be ferociously angry at him, he also felt that there was truth to his words.

"You have everything?" He asked.

"Yes, let's go." Anatoly replied.

Freddie pulled away from the curb and into the London traffic, this time not quite as fast. For some reason he felt he needed to make a good impression on Anatoly.

"How is she?" Anatoly begged, pain apparent in his dark eyes.

Not sure how to reply, Freddie said nothing and chose instead to don a quizzical expression.

"Don't lie to me either, I want to know the truth, Freddie." The Russian continued.

"She's a mess." Freddie replied. "She sits. She does nothing, she's as sedentary as a boulder. Weeping and thinking are her two primary diversions. The only thing she's done that's been seemingly normal was a visit to her Aunt Margaret yesterday, you know the woman—"

"I know who she is, Florence talked of her quite often." Anatoly interrupted.

Anatoly grimaced though, put off by the report on Florence. He wished he could have known sooner.

Freddie reconsidered his words. Had he put the situation to harshly?

"But I'm sure you'll heal her wounds. If you can't, then surely no one can.

"I dearly hope I can." Anatoly whispered quietly, running a capacious hand through his curls.

They passed the rest of the ride in silence.

Anatoly's anxiety was clear as day when they arrived at the flat.

"Anatoly, if you can, allow me to enter first, to just, kind of… say goodbye?" Freddie probed.

Upon looking him over, Anatoly's expression softened.

"Go ahead."

Freddie entered soundlessly, but Florence knew that he had come.

"Florence?" He called.

No answer came, but he had a feeling as to where he would find her. He treaded carefully into her bedroom, where sure enough, she lay in the bed, swathed in blankets and quilts of all manners. Freddie placed himself next to her, and put a hand on her head.

"Florence?"

"Freddie, just leave me alone." Florence grumbled, barely moving in her cocoon of blankets.

"Florence, I just wanted you to know… that… I… everything really will be alright… and I'll always… I mean… I love you…" Freddie mumbled lamely, sincere but unable to communicate effectively.

Florence sighed heavily.

"Freddie, please just leave me alone. I can't handle this anymore. I can't give you what you want, either, so please, just leave me be. Let me wallow in my misery alone, don't let me drag you down with me." Florence heaved.

"Florence…" Freddie attempted, hearing the truth in her words yet still wanting to disagree.

"Just go, Freddie, please."

Defeated, the American chess champion returned to the sidewalk where the man Florence loved awaited his turn to see her.

"She's all yours." Freddie managde, trying his best to sound dismisive and unconcerned.

Anatoly placed a hand on Freddie's shoulder as he turned away.

"Freddie…thank you."


	18. Chapter 18

Florence was as beautiful as he remembered, even though her long and thin form was barely visible beneath all of the blankets piled on her. Anatoly moved silently over to the bed, sitting down softly near her feet. Florence groaned, agitated, and shifted her postition slightly.

"Freddie, I told you to go home and leave me alone." She whined.

"I'm not Freddie." Anatoly replied.

Florence froze, and shuddered, chilled to the bone by the voice she had so longed to hear. She sat up very slowly, still swaddled in the quilts, and looked directly into the eyes of Anatoly, who sat at the foot of her bed. Full of trepidation, she reached out one hand and caressed his cheek, as if to make sure that he was really there.

"Tolya… it's really you… you're here… oh Tolya…" Florence breathed.

"Yes, it's really me." He returned, kissing her fiercely.

"Anatoly," Florence gasped, parting from his embrace, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here for you, what else would I be here for?" Anatoly replied, still running his hands over her arms in a quiet anticipation.

"But what about Svetlana and—"

"No buts, I'll explain it all later. There willl be plenty of time for that." He interrupted, kissing her with such ferocity that Florence was condsidering that he was serious.

It was useless though, and Florence found herself kissing him back anyways, reveling in his love, the affection she had missed so terribly, the deep satisfaction she found in loving him with all of her heart.

"Anatoly…" She moaned, wishing he would halt his pursuit long enough to at least answer one or two of her questions.

"Later, my love." Came the reply.

"Anatoly." She protested once more.

Yet it was lost, the pair of them already too engrossed in their desire. Discussions would just have to wait until later.


	19. Chapter 19

When Florence awoke, moonlight was streaming in through her bedroom window, and the sky was black as fresh pitch. She put a hand to her head, her brown eyes wide.

"_What a dream…" _She thought, still reeling from what she assumed was merely a fantasical vison of Anatoly from her sleep.

She rolled over, preparing to sprawl across the bed as she usually did when sleep was hard to come by, but instead she found her acess limited, for in her way was Anatoly, in the flesh.

Anatoly was lying next to her, deep in a sleep induced by both traveling and their romantic excursions from earlier in the evening. Florence drew a sharp breath, slightly alarmed to actually find him present in her bed. She had been fully convinced that she was merely imaging things, that it was too good to be true. Yet here he was, angelic in his slumber at her side.

Florence traced his cheek with an index finger, her disbelief beginning to taper off inot a state of pleasant surprise. Suddenly, Anatoly made a chuffing noise and shifted under the blankets, opening his eyes. Smiling with a luminous brilliance, he greeted her.

"Hi."

Florence beamed in reply and nestled herself closer to his warmth.

"I missed you terribly, you know." Anatoly mused into her hair.

She made a small noncommital noise and lay her head back on his shoulder, breathing deeply.

"Why did you come back to me, Tolya?" She sighed, reffering to him by his nickname.

"Honestly, is it not obvious? I came back because I was miserable, I knew you were miserable, and because I love you and cannot stand to be parted from you, Florence."

Florence frowned.

"Wait… you _knew _I was miserable? What are you talking about- you've been in Russia, haven't you?" She quizzed.

"Freddie called me a couple days ago."

"Freddie called you? Frederick Trumper, the man who probably hates the both of us more than anything, called you about me?"

"Yes, and believe me, I was just as surprised as you are." He validated.

"What did he say?" Florence demanded.

"He just told me about how you were depressed and how you wouldn't do anything, how you were barely eating, and how you were sick. He said he had tried in vain to get you out of your mood but you hadn't responded, and he said I absolutely _had_ to come here and tend to you."

Florence's stomach flipped. The mention of her illness reminded her of the secret child she now carried, the child that most defnitely belonged to Anatoly. Yet she managed to temporarily dismiss the thought and instead moved on with her interrogation.

"What about Svetlana and your daughters?" She posed.

Anatoly ran a hand through his hair, clearly pained about the subject.

"She listened in on the phone call from Freddie, and after I hung up she came into the room and we talked. It turns out that neither of the girls are mine- they're both Viigand's."

"Dmitri Viigand? The Russian you defeated at the last championships?" Florence gaped.

"The very same. Apparently they had been having an affair since I first played overseas up until before he started training to play for himself." He sighed.

"Anatoly… I'm so sorry…" She ventured, knowing he muct be feeling some sort of pain over the children.

"It's all for the best, really. I never was much of a father to them. And then after she told me that, she talked about how she knew that you loved me more than she ever could, and that she could see that the two of us obviously needed to be together. She just… I don't know… knew what I needed, and understood." He divulged.

"So how did you get past Molokov and the government? They wouldn't just let you out." Florence asked, gripping his hands in her own.

"Well, it was Svetlana's idea, actually. I called him and informed him that I still had valuable material assets here in London and told him I wanted to ensure their safety by collecting them myself. I just acted like a rich, snobby chess champion." He smiled.

Florence got very quiet as she began to piece together the situation. It seemed to her that their reunion would be a very short lived endeavor indeed if Molokov thought Anatoly was only here to collect his things. She sat up and pulled her hands away from Anatoly's. She didn't want to get any more attatched than she already was if he just planned on leaving her again.

"Florence? What is it?" Anatoly probed, reaching for her shoulder.

Florence pulled away and replied.

"Don't. You shouldn't have even come. Just go, Anatoly."

"I don't understand- Florence, we were just talking and—"

"No, I can see what you're doing, Anatoly. You're going to stay long enough that we both feel a bit better, and then you're going to leave, just like before." She choked.

"No, no, no." Anatoly soothed, adjusting so that he sat beside her. "You didn't let me finish telling you the plan. Sometime soon, hopefully tomorrow, Svetlana is going to the press with the parentage of our girls, so that I can get a divorce from her, and Viigand will be forced into reuniting with her. She wants the girls to have their real father and she wants me gone, so it seemed the most beneficial arrangement."

Florence sniffed and wrinkled her brow.

"So, you're staying? Really staying?" She asked.

"Yes, I'm yours forever more." He laughed, taking her in a warm embrace.

They held each other for a few more precious moments, and only broke apart when Florence interrupted.

"Anatoly…there's something you should know…"

"You sound serious, Florence. What is it?" Anatoly whispered softly, pulling her chin up so that he could meet her gaze.

"I'm… er… I'm… I'm pregnant." She fumbled.

"You're pregnant?" Anatoly repeated.

"Uh… yeah." She said, shying away.

"Florence, that's wonderful!" He exclaimed, not betraying his fear in his voice.

"Really?" She asked, looking for reassurance.

"Florence, I love you, and this is… evidence of that fact. We're getting out happy ending, Florence, I'm sure of it." Anatoly answered.

Yet Anatoly was absolutely terrified. He loved Florence as he said, but was still nervous about beginning a new life with her, especially one that involved a child.

"_But it is __**my**__ child," he thought privately, "she loves me and I know its my child she's carrying, and together, we can do anything."_

"I love you too." Florence expressed, reclining against him once more.

Their reunion complete, the pair of lovers fell into sleep once more, leaving their troubles behind for the comfort of dreams.


	20. Chapter 20

She was absolutely terrified. Mortified, even, of being broadcast live to the entire world, but she knew that she must complete the television interview, or neither her nor Anatoly would ever obtain true happiness. So, despite the fact that she wanted nothing more than to sprint from the set, Svetlana Sergievsky remained as she was, fixated on Walter D'Courcey, the traitorous snake from Global Television.

"So, Mrs. Sergievsky, how has life changed since Anatoly's glorious return as champion?" D'Courcey asked, emphasizing the word glorious as if to subtly point out how happy she was supposed to be.

Svetlana cleared her throat and chose her answer carefully- she knew who would be watching.

"Slightly stressed, to tell you the truth." She laughed, in the manner a high profile wife should. "There is so much going on between us anymore that sometimes I feel like I don't know Anatoly. I don't think we'll ever be the same again."

"Oh?" D'Courcey frowned, shooting a glance off camera to the shadowy backround where Molokov lurked. "How so? Do you mean his former political affiliations, or is there something else?"

"Well, I feel guilty, you see, because of what I've done. Anatoly doesn't know, of course, but I guess now is just as good a time as ever to reveal it." She sighed, still carrying on with her high class attitude.

"Mrs. Sergievsky, what kind of secret could such a benevolent woman such as yourself have to hide?" Walter quizzed, leaving a hint of a threat in the question, sensing her betrayal.

"Neither of our daughters are actually Anatoly's children. They're Dmitri Viigand's, his former chess-playing second." Svetlana heaved, letting her voice become saturated with remorse.

Every person on the set immeadiately stiffened, especially the devilish pair of Molokov and D'Courcey.

"Well, well. This is a development. We'll be taking a quick break, and when we return, we'll discuss this intriuging new fact." Walter managed.

As the camera crew cut the footage, D'Courcey pounced.

"What the hell was that? You called because you wanted to give an interview that redeemed your husband and yourself, and here you are liberating him, one stupid surprise after another! Is that shit about Viigand even true, or are you actually trying to ruin us?"

Svetlana stayed upright in her chair, not wavering under his verbal abuse.

"Of course it's true. Do you really think I was going to stick to any of the planned material bullshit that you and Molokov came up with? I knew exactly what I was doing! And now, seeing as you foolishly let Anatoly leave Russia again, he's in England, where he can safely take care of our seperation." She countered.

Then, as a trembling Molokov was about to enter the argument, the warning count went up.

"We're on in ten, nine, eight…"

Molokov retreated, still rank with fury.

"Welcome back, this is Walter D'Courcey for Global Television, and I'm here with Svetlana Sergievsky, wife of two-time world chess champion Anatoly Sergievsky. Just before the break, Mrs. Sergievsky informed us of a most shocking truth: neither of her two children are actually the biological daughters of her husband. In fact, she has told us that the girls are the daughters of rival chess competitor Dmitri Viigand. Mrs. Sergievsky, why did you keep this secret for such a great length of time?"

Svetlana was slightly shocked herself now. She hadn't expected D'Courcey to even continue with the interivew.

"I uh…. Felt it was for the best. He's my husband, it would break his heart." She answered.

"Then why finally let it out in the open, now, after you finally have him back?"

"He's not really back. I mean, he hasn't been here mentally or emotionally. He never was home because of chess, but now it's just as if I'm taking him away from his passions." Svetlana said, careful not to make any mention of Florence.

But Walter D'Courcey was far ahead of her.

"So it has nothing to do with a rumored relationship with his second, Florence Vassy?"

"No, not directly. They're good friends… but if it comes to a relationship and he's happy, so be it."

"So are you insinuating that a divorce is in the works?"

"Yes, I believe so. Anatoly and I have grown apart, and after all, I lied to him about the parentage of the girls. He has nothing here, his entire existence with me in Russia has been a lie. He deserves a fresh start." Svetlana whispered, poingnantly and strikingly.

Walter D'Courcey paused momentarily, as if considering what she said. Then, clearly setting his own time schedule, he broke.

"Well we are out of time. It was a pleasure, Mrs. Sergievsky. For Global Television, this is Walter D'Courcey, signing off."

The camera stopped and D'Courcey turned to Svetlana and pulled her close to whisper in her ear.

"I hope you know what you're doing. Ruining a planned interview and crossing me is one thing, but crossing Molokov is a very different thing. I can't pretend to not be angry, but I do see the benevolence in your motives. Good luck."

And then Walter turned away, leaving Svetlana dumbstruck.


	21. Chapter 21

Walter D'Courcey was slightly infuriated, that was sure, but he also was worried for Svetlana, along with her children, her husband, and Florence. What she had done had no doubt been planned previously by Anatoly and herself, but the one thing they had failed to anticipate was the ferocious response Molokov would produce. He sighed, sipping at his coffee from the comfort of his vehicle. He was being driven back to the airport, back to civilization and his superiors, who would no doubt want to hear of his latest exploits.

Once upon a time, he had been one of the superiors he now reported to, and it pained him now to remember such a time. A disgraced agent, he had been demoted to this pathetic excuse for an undercover job- Walter D'Courcey, Global Television bigshot. Even in such a trivial position, he had not been allowed even the simple comforts of his original life. Everything about him, from his wardrobe to his name was a creation of the organization.

Walter, born Rafael Tourelle, was the illegitamate son of an American politician and a French woman, and had been raised by his single mother since birth. Later in life, after developing into a mentally and physically acute young man, he had searched out a postition at the agency. Walter had acheived great success for two decades, but then there was an incident involving a missing shipment of nuclear materials, the death of four agents, and the rise to power of a small terrorist organization. The events had ruined him, and he had been shoved into a blank cover job and rotated to the rear ranks. He was D'Courcey now, a wealthy English television mogul, and though he hated his work, he did enjoy the monetary incentive. There was only one thing he really wanted now, and that was to free himself from this wretched post and return to a state of glorification.

As of late, Walter had been attempting to redeem himself in the eyes of those above him by arranging a deal with the soviets, one that now, thanks to Svetlana would probably sour. He could only hope that the handful of agents that he had bargained for were already safely out of Russia. He winced mentally yet again as he thought of that deal. While it was neccessary, deceiving Florence and Anatoly had been one act he had nearly regretted. He genuinely felt for the pair of star-crossed lovers, particularly Florence. The whereabouts of Gregor Vassy, Florence's father, were still unknown, as was the factuality of his death. However, he could not let that bother him now. Now he must contend with Alexander Molokov.

Molokov seemed to be everywhere. He had an infinite amount of informants, an impeccable array of skills, and an uncanny likeness to the devil himself in the way that he never looked back or felt remorse. The man was a rat, a dirty, sneaky, plotting rat, one who did more than his job with frightening ferocity. Molokov was a KGB senior agent, one who had worked his way up the ladder with incredible speed. He wath ruthless, and everyone who had ever heard of him knew it. D'Courcey himself had heard countless tales of Molokov's tenacity, the way he would do anything required for his operation. He shuddered thinking of the lengths to which he may go to exact revenge on Svetlana, yet he knew that if she were harmed it would be merely a small loss to the organization, and she would pass unnoticed.

"_We're all merely players in a game, a game where no one's rules are the same." _D'Courcey thought, grinning at the irony of his analogy. _"Nobody's on nobody's side."_


	22. Chapter 22

Soon after Svetlana recovered from her awe at D'Courcey's words, she remembered Molokov. She turned to find that he was already standing directly behind her, glaring at her with cold eyes. If he weren't such a terrifying man, she may have had to supress the urge to laugh, for he was at least two inches shorter than her in her high heels.

"I believe you have made a grave mistake, my dear." He hissed, which seemed a feat in itself due to his heavy accent.

"I… I…." Svetlana balked, suddenly stripped of her confidence.

"Come with me. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion, it was a command, and a command that Svetlana obeyed without question. His iron grip was a vice on her forearm, and she began to squirm in discomfort as she walked.

"Quit wriggling. You know I won't hesitate to drag you by your hair." He deadpanned, not even paying the slightest bit of attention to her.

Svetlana halted her struggle immediately. She remembered all too well. For when She was but a young woman of nineteen, she had been a captive of Molokov's in a desperate attempt to provoke a deal with her father for some sort of weaponry. It was a muddled handful of memories in her mind, due to the drugs he had administered. Svetlana didn't even know what Molokov had been vying for in the first place, only that he called it 'the goods'. She had simply assumed he meant arms. In the end, Svetlana had been beaten very badly and returned to her father a bloodly mess, Molokov the victor. He gotten what he wanted, and within another five days, her father was found dead. Authorities declared the cause of death as cardiac arrest, but Svetlana had suspected something more sinister.

Presently, she touched a hand to the back of her head where he had pulled out a generous handful of hair over a decade ago. They were headed towards the rear entrance of the building, where no doubt some sort of dark vehicle awaited them. Molokov dragged her on wordlessly until they reached the alleyway, where he instructed her further with two menacing words:

"Get in."

She did as she was bidden and ducked into the car, and shortly thereafter was whisked off to a location unbeknownst to anyone but Molokov.


	23. Chapter 23

Florence was radiant. Now that Anatoly had returned, and Svetlana had made the announcement of their seperation, things were actually running fairly smoothly. The flat was clean, they were both healthy, as was the baby, and all was well. Save one thing: Freddie.

She had attempted to call him, but in typical fashion of Freddie, he had not answered. Florence wanted so desperately to sit down with him, to talk things over with him, to get everything between them out in the open. No doubt he was hurting- Freddie was too sensitive not to, not after all they had been through together. She knew he would be depressed, and Florence felt that due to the way he had taken care of her, he deserved the same comforts in return. It was presumably true that Freddie was not lying in his own vomit on a desolate and dirty kitchen floor, but Florence still wanted to reach out to him. Two weeks after Anatoly's return, she presented her Russian partner with her idea.

"Tolya, have you heard anything from Freddie?" She asked, wandering into the kitchen massaging her neck.

Anatoly frowned and resurfaced from the bowels of the refrigerator.

"Why would I have heard anything from him? He would talk to you before me. Why do you ask?" He answered, his face an image of confusion as he shut the door to their chilled foods.

"Oh… well I just hadn't heard from him and I'm worried about him…" Florence answered truthfully.

"Florence, there's no need to worry about him- he's probably off rolling in the money he's earned from Global in the last year. I wouldn't lose sleep over it."

"But you don't understand, you don't know Freddie like I do. I… don't think he's over me and… I just know he's miserable. We never got a chance to talk about… everything… and the last thing I told him was to get out and I just…" Florence spewed, her guilt making itself clear to Anatoly immediately.

He moved across the kitchen and pulled out a chair for her at the small dining table.

"Sit. You look exhausted."

Florence sat and sighed heavily.

"Tolya…"

"Shh. Calm down, Florence, it's alright." He crooned, squatting down in front of her and taking her hands in his.

"It is not alright." Florence whimpered.

"Yes it is. Florence, I understand your concern, but you can't keep worrying about him anymore. He's a grown man, he can take care of himself."

"Tolya, have you met Freddie? He's the farthest thing from a grown man! He'll be a wreck after what I said to him!" She cried, exasperated.

Anatoly pulled her hands to his chest, staring her down with his expressive brown eyes. She breathed a weighted breath and managed to gaze back at him with a pained look.

"Okay, so he's not the most stable man in the world, and he's ben under a lot of stress, but have you realized how contradicting you are?"

"What are you talking about?" Florence frowned.

"Just a year or so ago you were snapping at me for implying that he was off his head." He smiled.

That got her for just a moment, and it was if the sun was breaking through the clouds as she simled.

"I know, it doesn't matter now. But honestly Florence, you have got to realize that he will be fine, and it isn't your responsibility to worry about him." Anatoly rationalized.

Florence shrugged and pulled her hands from her partner's grasp, massaging her right temple and her neck simultaneously. As she let her gaze wander about the kitchen floor, Anatoly began to realize how upset she really was.

"You're really worried about him, aren't you?" He whispered.

Florence nodded, a tear or two gathering in her eyes.

Now it was Anatoly's turn to sigh, and he did so with much anxiety. He was incredibly conflicted- as much as he wanted to reassure Florence, he wasn't entirely sold on the idea he was sure she was pushing.

"Look, if you're really that fraught over him, then I think you should just talk to him."

"I've tried calling him but he won't answer."

"I thought you were smarter than that, Florence. Go over to his apartment and talk to him face to face. He can't turn away a pregnant woman." Anatoly grinned, gently brushing a hand across her slightly swollen middle.

Florence let another smile split her face.

"This is why you're here, with me. Without you I'm nothing but an unreasonable idiot." Florence said, caressing his cheek.

"No, I'm here because I love you."


	24. Chapter 24

The next day, Florence found herself following Anatoly's advice. She bundled herself up in her black peacoat and left the house sometime around nine, right when Freddie typically challenged himself to a quick chess match. Anatoly was off shuflfing through paperwork involving his ongoing divorce, and so Florence walked alone. London was absolutely beautiful on this particular afternoon, and while the wind was more than slightly chilling, the sun was as radiant as Florence herself.

It was a medium distance walk to Freddie's apartment, around twenty minutes if traffic was mild. However, to the luck of bothe Freddie and Florence, traffic was light and Florence made it to her destination in a mere fifteen minutes. She approached the building and entered with her key, one she had kept in her possesion, even after their very unbecoming split over a year ago. As she mounted the stairs, her anxiety mounted similarly, one increment of concern at a time.

By the time she finally made it to the fourth floor, the location of Freddie's apartment, she was winded and nervous beyond discernable reason. Not even bothering to knock, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing the dark entrance hallway Freddie had never bothered to place a lamp in.

Florence wandered through the hallway towards the side room Freddie often spent his time in, but something else caught her eye.

A chess set, Freddie's best chess set, was lying scattered on the floor. As she stooped to examine the travesty of destruction, she noticed that all the pieces were accounted for save one: the black queen. Significantly confused, Florence returned to a standing position and carried on through the apartment, searching for Freddie. When she didn't find him in the side room, she began to consider the fact that he had left, until a flash of something caught her eye.

A white bit of fabric, fluttering in the wind, caught between the sliding door to the porch and it's mount. Florence approached the door and was relieved to find Freddie, reclined on a folding chair on said porch. He was rolling something around in his hands, fiddling with it. She gulped a deep lungful of air and opened the door.

Freddie did not turn, nor did he say anything. He simply continued rolling what Florence now identified as the missing black queen in his hands.

"_That's odd… Freddie always prefers the white pieces." _Was her first thought, a random one at that.

She pulled up a second chair from its position next to the stone wall and placed herself next to him.

"Freddie… " Florence began.

"You look good, Florence." He said straightfaced, still not turning to face her.

"How would you know, Freddie, you haven't looked at me yet." She returned.

Freddie turned to face her in one very dramatic movement, making it very clear that he was doing so only because she had pointed it out.

"There. You do look good, Florence." He said, still avoiding making eye contact.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I thought I would find you at the board, you know. Playing your mid-morning match."

"I don't play chess anymore." Freddie grumbled.

"Freddie, don't be ridiculous. Of course you play chess. It's your life." Florence reasoned.

Freddie grunted, avoiding her eyes yet again.

Florence couldn't stand it any longer. She opened things up in one flutter:

"Freddie, I came over here because I wanted to talk. I'm sorry. What I've done, what I've put you through since we got back to England, it was horrible of me to do that. And thank you, for taking care of me when I couldn't bring myself to care for anything, and thank you for calling Anatoly. He told me about what you said, and you really don't have any idea how grateful I am to you."

Freddie snorted and turned.

"Florence, you really think there's anything to apologize for? You were distraught, torn to pieces by misery and guilt. You couldn't help how you felt. You love Anatoly, it's pretty clear. You don't need to apologize for loving him, or for loving him so much that you are carrying his child." Freddie laughed strangely, still seeming distant.

"I never apologized for loving Anato—"

"But that's what you're getting at Florence." Freddie interrupted. "You're feeling guilty for loving him after how I've stuck by you, after all we've been through. But it's uneccessary, I understand perfectly. And I still wouldn't take back anything."

Florence was caught off guard- it was if Freddie was reading her true motives from within the depths of her mind. He knew her better than she thought.

"Freddie…" she started again.

"Florence, I appreciate the thought here, but there's no point. Go home to Anatoly." Freddie said, as if in pain.

Florence, understanding she had lost, stood and faced Freddie.

"Fine. If that's what you want." She concluded, sounding as if she was reasoning with a small child.

Freddie stared off into the sky and ignored her, not bothering to show her out.

As he watched her retreat down the sidewalk from the deck of his apartment, he twiddled the black queen in his hands again.

Such a squallid little ending.


	25. Chapter 25

Upon returning home, Anatoly immediately sensed that Florence's encounter with Freddie had not gone as smoothly as possible. The flat was dim, and there was absolute silence. Anatoly crept down the hallway in a mirrored muteness, then eased the bedroom door open with a gentle movement full of trepidation and uneasiness.

Florence was sitting up in bed, with only a small table lamp to provide light by which to read the book she held. He hair was pulled back in a disorganized knot, stray locks sticking out every which way. Her eyes were fixed on the novel with such an intensity that Anatoly could tell she was having to force it, that her thoughts were in fact lingering on something else, a something else he guessed was Freddie. She seemed vacant, as if her soul was actually somewhere else, trying to decide what she wanted, while her earthly body remained in the bed, attempting to read.

Anatoly stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind him, pausing to kiss her on the forehead as he made his way to their bathroom.

"How was your day?" He began, innocently enough, allowing her the chance to make the first move.

Florence did not move, but replied, "Interesting." She seemed to be anchoring herself to composure through the book, compelling herself to remain stoic and unemotional. Anatoly could see this was going to be a painful conversation.

"Mmm? How so?" He continued as he changed out of his clothes into his typical sleepwear.

Florence sighed, a noise she made quite often now. Still not distracted from at least pretending to read, she said in a strained voice, "I went and saw Freddie."

"How did it go?" Anatoly mumbled, his words muffled by the presence of his toothbrush.

"Terrible. His apartment was a mess, Anatoly, and so was he. He was just sitting on the walk out in a chair, fiddling with a chess piece from his best set, while the rest of it lay on the floor in the other room. He said he didn't play chess anymore. When I tried to talk about what's been going on, he shut me down and said I didn't need to apologize and we didn't need to talk about it. He told me I didn't need to apologize for hurting him because he said I didn't. He kept saying that I didn't need to apologize for loving you instead of him." Florence recounted, finally laying her book down on the bed.

Anatoly reemerged, drying his face with a towel, and stopped to lean on the doorframe that separated their bathroom and bedroom.

"Are you sure that you love me instead of him, or do you love me along with him?" Anatoly asked quietly, actually considering the weight of the question.

"Anatoly, I think I'll always love Freddie, in a way at least. Or maybe not love... it's complicated, you know? I feel like I'm always going to care about him, that I'm always going to keep him with me, but you... I love you, Anatoly. Nothing is going to change that, because I'm going to love you until the day I die." She explained and asserted.

Anatoly didn't question the fact a second time, but instead promptly crawled into the bed with her, situating himself so that she could lay her head comfortably on his right shoulder.

"And I will love you always as well." Anatoly returned.

They sat statuesque in the ambient silence for several minutes before Anatoly spoke again.

"I don't honestly know what to tell you about Freddie. He seems to have removed himself in order to respect our boundaries, although I think more for your sake than mine. I think he cares deeply for you, Florence, but I think he also cares in a way he knows you won't ever return anymore, and that's hurting him. He just needs some time to figure out how he's going to handle it, you know?"

"I guess you're right." Florence admitted. seeing the clear truth in his words. "How is it that your words usually fall out of your mouth in mangled heaps but when I desperately need advice they're just... perfect?"

Anatoly grinned. He agreed with that description.

"I couldn't tell you. It's not intentional."

"Well, whatever it is, don't change a thing." Florence ordered, twisting her fingers in his.

"I wasn't planning on it." He returned, smiling as a perfectly ingenious thought billowed up in his mind like a plume of fragrant smoke. "Florence, how would you feel about getting away from the city for awhile, you know, going to the countryside for a couple of months, to just... get away from it all?"

Florence peeked up at him, upside down from her perspective, looking unconvinced.

"Are you serious? You really think that we could just disappear for a couple of months in the English countryside?" She challenged.

"Sure, why couldn't we? I took care of the last of my paperwork today, and anything else they need they can just send out. We can find a little house out where no one knows us or will bother us and we can just enjoy one another." He elaborated, still grinning like a cheshire cat.

Florence too began to smile as she came to the baffling conclusion that Anatoly was in all reality serious about their retreat to the countryside.

"Tolya... I... yes, I think we should." She laughed, her face lighting up like a string of christmas lights.

"Great! But, there is one thing... I have no clue where we would go- I don't really know my way around England." Anatoly said sheepishly.

Florence thought for only a moment, for an idea of monumental brilliance fell into her head quite quickly.

"There was a cottage house we often traveled to with the orphanage I was raised in... I think it was about fifty miles south of here, near the coast. I can ask my Aunt Mag tomorrow if she remembers the name..." She remembered, her brow crinkling as she attempted to gather her reccolations of the location.

"How do you think she would feel if I tagged along when you go to ask her?" Anatoly slid in, wanting to meet the woman to which Florence attributed many, if not most of her happy childhood memories.

Florence was pleasantly surprised at his request, and turned to face him as she voiced the fact.

"I think that she would be thrilled to meet you, actually. We'll walk over there tomorrow afternoon, then." She concluded, readjusting her position again.

Anatoly's cheshire grin continued long after Florence turned out the light and fell asleep on his chest.

He was sure that he had finally found his happy ending.


	26. Chapter 26

In the dreary and dark realm of the basement, or as Molokov called it, 'the dungeon', Svetlana was once again considering her options. By her latest count, it had been thirteen days since her television interview fiasco, and nothing indicated any impending changes for the good, but rather several for the worse. At least she was physically comfortable- the basement was finished as a small apartment, complete with a miniature kitchen and a full bathroom. However other than that, there was little else to be at the very least satisfied about.

She had not been told much, other than she was currently under supervision and that she was on probation. Her two daughters were currently staying with her aunt, an elderly old crone entirely devoted to the USSR. Every once in a while an agent would fetch her up from the basement, lead her to an office upstairs, have her sign some papers, and then return her to her prison. Svetlana didn't even care enough to read what she was signing, nor did she ask what was going on. Other than her children, she asked no questions. She said nothing, did nothing, and had no opinion. All she knew was that Anatoly had made it to England, and that he had been reunited with Florence. Here on this fine afternoon, she sat.

Svetlana was examining her fingernails when the door to the basement opened, throwing a precious beam of sunlight down into her abyss. She lurched forward and sat up, trying to peer around the corner to see who was coming.

Near silent footsteps padded down the wooden stairs, catlike and perfect. It was the absence of the commonplace creaking noise that set things into place for Svetlana- there was only one man she knew that could be so silent on this elderly staircase. Alexander Molokov's polished shoes touched down on the rug with an equal lack of auditory stimuli, immediately setting his blonde captive into a foul mood. For whatever reason, Svetlana found her temper finally rising, welling up within her at last. After thirteen days, she wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

"What do you want, snake?" She hissed, not unlike the likeness of a serpent she associated with Molokov.

Molokov glared up at her in return, with such an anger that Svetlana felt as if she would melt under it.

"Sit down, my dear." He said pleasantly, brown eyes narrowing.

Svetlana chose not to sit, knowing that her superior height irritated him.

"I want answers, Mr. Molokov." She demanded.

"Then you shall have them."

Svetlana continued to glare into his disgusting face, resisting the urge to spit into it.

"What do you want to know, my dear." He asked, although it didn't seem to be a question. HIs voice was sharp and unemotional.

"Why are you keeping me here? What are you planning in revenge against me, or Anatoly? Why have I not been allowed to see my children?" She fired crisply.

"I would think that the reason we are keeping you here is quite obvious, my dear. You have betrayed your country and need supervision so you don't do anything else... foolish. Also, we do not plan revenge, what would give you any idea that we would partake in such a vile act? Your children, as you have been told, are staying with your aunt, and you will be returned to them as soon as you are deemed responsible enough to handle yourself." Molokov sneered.

Svetlana was a mixture of ice and fire, a flaming temper combined with a frigid, cold soul, all wrapped up in a hardened dull shell that had become her persona.

"Since when... is it the right of the government to decide whether I am fit to raise my own children? And don't you give me that we don't plan revenge shit... I have already experienced your revenge first hand... I'm certain you remember how you assasinated my father... all for some stupid weapons deal... and now... you're keeping me hostage because I set my husband... the man who I love... free from your boundaries... free from your cruel and sadistic practices. And now, here you stand, lying to me... Mr. Molokov... I hope you realize that there is nothing more I will be assisting you with until you return me to my children and get the hell out of my life." Svetlana fumed, slowly and distinctly, her hatred accumulating like rain clouds before a storm. She found she was shaking, quivering in the red haze of anger.

Molokov was slightly stunned, he had to admit. He had never once expected Svetlana to address him in such a tone, particularly after the events concerning her father. Of course he did remember, and he also saw the truth to her words, yet he did not care. He was ruthless, as she suggested, and he was good at it. After spending years as an agent, the emotional woes of sentimental women did not phase him.

"If that is how you really feel I cannot agree, but I will promise you this: if you do not cooperate, you will never see anything other than this basement for the duration of your life. I will go now, to leave you to think about your choices. I will be back later to discuss options with you, my dear." Molokov finished, exiting the basement as quietly as he came.

Svetlana held her tongue and did not reply to his statement, but secretly vowed to herself that she would find answers, not only for herself but for Anatoly, and Florence. She wanted to know why Molokov wanted her father, why he had not released Florence's father, and why they were so adamant about keeping Anatoly within the confines of The Soviet Union. Svetlana Sergievsky was a woman propelled by her anger, and she would have answers, in whatever form they took.


	27. Chapter 27

Florence honestly couldn't be happier. As she walked hand in hand with Anatoly, it was obvious, too. Her face was flushed from the cold wind, making her appear like a very tall cherubic cupid. Anatoly also was joyful, having completed nearly all of the paperwork necessary for his divorce, so between the pair of them, the whole world seemed a bright and perfect place. As they approached the residence of her Aunt Mag, Florence gripped Anatoly's bare hand even tighter in nervousness. It wasn't that she was concerned they wouldn't get along, it was an excited anxiety, and Florence was quite aquiver in the impending union of the two people she loved most.

Florence found that she was already looking forward to visiting the countryside, even when they had no idea where they would be staying. She couldn't wait to begin anew with Anatoly, and their retreat to the countryside was going to be the foundation, the cornerstone, and the beautiful start to their new relationship.

_"Here and now," _she whispered to herself, _"this is the beginning, the start of my happy ending."_

Anatoly, in respect, pretended not to hear her assure herself under her breath, but did allow himself a private smile- he was thinking the same thing.

They approached the building with the all the confidence of royalty, heads held high, their faces displaying the youthful exuberance that most adults their age had difficulty coming by. As usual, Margaret opened the door before her visitors were given the chance to knock. The creased old woman stood still for a moment, analyzing the couple, then turned to Florence and embraced her, whispering into her ear as she did so:

"You're right, he is good looking."

Florence let a rolling laugh loose and hugged her Aunt tightly, grateful for her genuine sense of humor and perfect timing.

"Aunt Mag, this is Anatoly. Anatoly, this is my Aunt Mag." Florence introduced, indicating to each of them as she did so.

Anatoly went to shake the woman's hand but was instead pulled into a tight embrace much like the one Florence had just completed.

"I feel as if I know you already. Call me Mag or Margaret, either one suits me just fine." The woman smiled, stepping back once again to get a better look at the tall, curly-haired Russian.

"I feel as if I know you as well. Florence speaks very highly of you." Anatoly laughed, placing a hand on Florence's shoulder.

"She better," Margaret mock-threatened, "especially after all the hell she's put me through."

Florence stuck her tongue out in a playful return as Margaret ushered them inside.

"Come on in and let me take those coats from you." She beckoned, removing Florence's charcoal pea coat without even giving her a chance to do it herself.

Margaret hung both of the coats up on a weathered wooden coat rack as Anatoly closed the door behind them, sealing in the blessed heat of the house.

"I was just making a pot of soup and getting tomorrow's orders ready, if you would care to join me." The baker offered, referring to the countless loaves of dough she must prepare.

"Of course we'll stay, Aunt Mag." Florence answered, now smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt.

Florence and Anatoly followed the old woman hand in hand as she hobbled through the house to the spacious kitchen, where a wood stove built into the wall radiated heat like a miniature sun. Margaret checked her soup as Florence, quite familiar with the kitchen, located three bowls and spoons from within the bowels of the numerous cupboards. Anatoly simply observed, fixated on Florence and particularly the way she slipped right into the role of daughter.

"Flo, there's a batch of rolls in the oven, can you nab them out and toss them in a basket?" Margaret requested from her place over the stove.

"Sure." Florence replied cheerily, doing as asked.

"Flo?" Anatoly questioned, slightly humored at the development of a nickname.

"She's always called me that," Florence said firmly, "and she's the only one allowed to do so."

"Alright, alright, I won't even try." Anatoly laughed as Florence tossed a dishrag his way.

"Wipe down the table, will you?"

And within minutes, the table was gleaming and set, a rich meal placed in front of them. The sweet aroma of the bread swirled through the room, accompanied by a spice of some sort being emitted by the soup.

"What exactly is this?" Anatoly puzzled, peering into the pot of soup.

"Hungarian Gulyasleves." Margaret answered, grinning and sitting down at the table. "Others would call it goulash. It's my own family recipe- no one knows what all is in it except for me."

"Ah, of course." Anatoly nodded. "It smells wonderful."

"It is wonderful." Florence agreed, also taking a seat at the table.

The trio doled out the aromatic soup and a crusty bread, along with a few apples Florence had snagged from the refrigerator. They began eating and talking, a pleasant mood occupying all of their persons.

"Aunt Mag, what was the name of that cottage south of here, the one the orphanage always traveled to?" Florence asked between mouthfuls of Gulyasleves.

"Stoneybrook." Margaret replied, refilling her foster daughter's bowl. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, Anatoly and I are considering going away to the countryside and I thought that it wouldn't be a bad place to go." Florence explained.

Margaret was actually a bit taken aback.

"You're going away to hide already? Right after you just got settled in?" She inquired.

Anatoly and Florence gazed sheepishly at each other across the table, their feet tangled together beneath its surface.

"Well, yes. I want to start over with Florence, and we both thought that the best way to do that would be to get away from all of the distractions of the city, particularly the media attention." Anatoly said, openly and honestly.

"Seems logical enough." Margaret replied, reclining in her chair.

At this three-worded approval, Anatoly squeezed Florence's hand tightly, silently communicating his thoughts in a way he knew she would interpret: _"See, I told you so."_

Florence echoed the confirmative squeeze and resumed eating, content with all around her.

It was smooth sailing for once.


	28. Chapter 28

Freddie's head was full of dates and lengths of time now, it seemed like the only thing keeping him sane. It had been nine weeks since he dropped Florence at her apartment, since she had dismissed him with a sigh. It had been six weeks since he had been dismissed a second time, since he woefully delivered Anatoly to her, six weeks since he found out that she was carrying the Russian's child. It had been four weeks since she tried to approach him again to make amends and apologize for something beyond her control, four weeks since Freddie had shot her down, being the total shit he was. It had been three weeks now, since he went to her flat to find it empty, three weeks since he had called Florence's Aunt Mag as to inquire about her whereabouts, three weeks from the time he was informed that she had run off to the countryside with Anatoly. It was now three weeks into his misery.

Freddie truly was miserable. He missed her, and longed only to talk to her as they used to, as friends, for he knew friends was the most he could expect from Florence at this point. It was if his happiness had been exchanged for hers, leaving him alone and forlorn. He had just yesterday called Walter D'Courcey, resigning from his position at Global Television, thus severing his final ties to the terrible industry that had caused all of them so much pain. As he had told Florence, he was still not playing chess. He was not exactly sure whether his lenten-like abandonment of the game was a permanent arrangement, but he did know that his leave from the game was indefinite, for it relied on the return of Freddie to his usual rude and callous self.

Freddie still toted the black queen with him wherever he went, in his pocket or hand, a small fixture of Florence. Little did he know, Anatoly too still carried his own epitome of the dark-haired woman. But even if Freddie were to know now, he would not care. He did not do much most days, drawing even more parallels to Florence's misery.

He would get up at his usual time- eight oh three. This was because Freddie had never liked even numbers, nor did he like multiples of five- they seemed too predictable and overused, thus his odd rising time. After waking, Freddie would eat a simple breakfast, typically consisting of sweet rolls which he purchased at a local bakery and eggs. His meal completed, he would take a brief walk, attempting to clear his head of images of Florence and of chess. Yet Freddie found that he never could enjoy the beautiful scenery of London, and he would always return to his apartment, saddened and upset as before.

In the time frame where he would normally challenge himself to a quick chess match, Freddie now simply stared at the pieces, not daring to touch a single one save his queen, lest the game infect his mind again. He would gaze at the pieces, mind churning, seeking out the symbolism of the figures on the board to those in his life. Freddie now saw each one of the people in his life as a specialized chess piece, each players in a much larger game.

Florence, of course, was a queen- a versatile, valued, and beautiful piece, a cunning figurine with an incredible amount of power. Anatoly, the intelligent Russian, was a knight to Freddie, readily able to dodge other pieces and evade capture, yet an always true and faithful ally to those whom he cared about- in this case Florence, the queen.

Freddie saw himself as a king, the leading role, which only seemed fitting in his own life. He had a great amount of power and several prospective paths on which to tread, yet he could only travel down said paths at a tedious speed, and not without the aid of those around him, without the assistance of the human shields he had collected in his lifetime. Freddie's current 'woe is me' outlook on life helped to reinforce the prospective that all the players around him wanted to see him fall, to see him fail in all his endeavors.

Leading the assault on him was Alexander Molokov, playing the role of bishop. Sneaky, ruthless, and sly, Molokov made a perfect bishop. Freddie could easily draw comparisons between the limitations of a bishop and the limitations of Molokov himself. As a bishop was restricted to only one color of squares on the board, so was Molokov restricted to his communist and totalitarian regime. Freddie wondered if Molokov even had the capacity to love.

Walter D'Courcey was a rook to Freddie, a strong-willed and useful force, yet always found grazing at the edge of the board, not daring enough to enter the foray in all enthusiasm. Freddie even drew comparison to Anatoly's former wife on his great chess board. Svetlana was a mere pawn, a disposable and throwaway commodity, worth only what she could contribute for the time being.

_"But," _Freddie reminded himself silently, _"even pawns have been known to cause the downfall of great players."_

Today as Freddie mused over the pieces, thoughts of a new character entered his mind. What kind of force would Florence and Anatoly's child become in this ever more complicated game? Freddie knew that when Molokov found out about the hidden pregnancy there would be hell to pay for the both of them, as he was sure there had been for Svetlana when she gave her interview.

Yet the question still lingered- _what would become of the child?_

Freddie was quite certain that the interlaced agendas of chess, politics, and love would long affect all of their lives, particularly the child. He supposed that Anatoly would be the deciding factor as to the outcome of the child. It all relied on his performance and decisions at the upcoming year's chess championships. Knowing what little he did of Anatoly's character and persona, Freddie assumed that Anatoly, ever the gentleman and favorite of the press, would attempt to bow out gracefully, win or lose, returning his chess ventures to a smaller scale, as they were before Anatoly rose to the elitist level.

Presently, Freddie groaned and adjusted his position in the straight backed wooden chair he sat in, snatching the morning's paper from the counter in front of him. He began to read the day's headlines, casually scanning through, already bored. He read the mess of black and white to more or less occupy his thoughts rather than out of interest- it gave him something other than chess and Florence to think about. After mulling over several pages, he was considering tossing it aside, but just as he prepared to throw it away in a flurry of paper, something caught his eye. It was a small article, towards the bottom of the paper, a black box with a headline that read:

RUSSIAN CHESS CHAMPION FINALIZES DIVORCE

& REMAINS SEPARATE FROM USSR.

Freddie quickly ran through the article, barely even taking in any of what he read. In fact, he was reading so quickly that the words were hardly making sense, and his brain began to lag behind his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head to clear his thoughts and began again, trying to obtain some sort of meaning from the jumbled typescript. Letters and words had always been a problem for Freddie, the characters would always blur together and form clumps, completely disastrous piles of literature. Florence had once gently wondered aloud if Freddie had a sort of learning disability, called dyslexia or something of the sort. Naturally, Freddie shot her down with a few cruel phrases, and that had been the end of it, but now, years later, he still wondered if her theory had merit.

Finally focused, he read the article through very slowly, with a distinction that his grade school teacher would admire. It was nothing of consequence, just a short and direct piece on how Anatoly had been betrayed and had lived to tell the tale, complete with a generic photograph of Anatoly himself, donning his usual tight and polite public smile.

That was one thing Freddie admired about Anatoly- his ability to become another man in public. Anatoly worked diligently to keep distance between his personal life and his chess-playing, public self. Freddie, however, was known for blending the two together, particularly in the way he dated Florence, his manager and second for seven years. Florence used to say that ruining press conferences and destroying his image was his second specialty, just behind chess itself. He threw the paper aside angrily and then glared off out into the London skyline, mentally berating himself for ever letting her go.

_"Anatoly deserves her, he's not a shit, he loves her and she loves him. She doesn't love me." _He thought, trying his best to chisel the idea into his mind. This was something he went over quite often these days, drilling it so regularly that it almost became part of his essential being. He imagined introducing himself with a similar line:

_"Hello, my name is Freddie Trumper, I'm a former chess champion who lost the one woman I ever loved to the man who beat me at the world championships. He deserves her because he's not a shit. They love each other very much and she now hates me. Nice to meet you."_

It was a ridiculous and quite stretched example, but at this point Freddie didn't mind. Suddenly, Freddie was startled by a knock at his door. For a fleeting moment he thought he had imagined it, but then the sound came a second time, confirming the fact that Freddie was, in fact, sane. Cautiously, Freddie approached the source of the hollow knocking. Stunned into silence after sneaking a look through his peephole, Freddie opened the door to the last person he had expected to see.


	29. Chapter 29

Dmitri Viigand honestly didn't know what he was doing, but nonetheless felt that his current angle of approach was best. Yet as Freddie Trumper opened the door in front of him, he could not find his words or formulate any plausible, intelligent, thoughts.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Freddie demanded, rising to full height in the doorframe to as to attempt to appear larger than the thick Russian, which he was not.

Dmitri was still agape, having lost all his knowledge as the door had opened.

_"Say something, you fool." _He commanded himself mentally, wincing as he did so.

"I... uh... can I come in? I need to talk to you about... some things... Chess... uh..." Viigand finished lamely, sounding much like the frightened youth he had once been.

"About chess?" Freddie frowned.

Freddie had only once met with Dmitri Viigand, this last year at the World Chess Championships. They had much in common, and in the midst of all the commotion following the finale of the match, they had found themselves both sitting in the same overpriced bar near their respective hotels. Out of shared misery, they had communed together, sharing liquor and memories, finding that in fact they had much in common.

Dmitri had too suffered a terrible childhood- his mother succumbed to drugs and his father often beat him. Dmitri was an overweight child, and after countless years of taunts from both his peers and father, he had reverted into a solitary boy, hardened and alone. An educator had introduced him to the game of chess in the hopes that the pudgy abused child would find solace in the game's intense mental motives. Sure enough, Dmitri proved himself quite adept at the game, and by age fourteen he had become both a skilled chess player and a fit physical specimen.

Freddie liked Dmitri, he was tough, quiet, talented, and, like Freddie himself, a failure. They had spent nearly six hours in the bar, and by the end of their endeavor, had become something like kindred spirits. Yet they had still parted ways with no more than a amiable handshake, and that had seemingly been the end of it. However, Dmitri now stood on Freddie's doorstep, wanting to talk.

"Yes... chess, among other things..."Dmitri confirmed, wrenching his hands together in nervousness.

Freddie removed himself from the doorway and offered a pathway inside.

"Come on in."

Dmitri did so, significantly more timidly than one might expect from such a corpulent man.

Freddie led him into the bedraggled sitting room, which was still littered with newspapers and dirty dishes alike.

Dmitri, with some difficulty, found an available seat and sat as an old man would, sore and unsteady. Freddie frowned, noticing that all of Dmitri's movements seemed strained. Perhaps he had been injured...

"Alright, I'm going to cut directly to things... it's Molokov." Viigand heaved.

"Who else." Freddie snorted, rolling his eyes at the mere mention of the name. Yet he was still intrigued by the nature of Viigand's surprising visit.

"Yes, well... after Svetlana made her... announcement-"

"About her having a secret love affair with you?" Freddie interrupted, meaning to test his fellow.

"Yes." Dmitri winced. "Anyways, after that, Molokov sent a group of men to my house with a car, and had me driven to his office building in Moscow."

"Go on." Freddie urged, now very curious.

"And then they led me to Svetlana, told me I had ten minutes, and shut me in a basement of some sort with her, to talk." Dmitri explained, stopping to gather his thoughts and inhale a substantial lungful of air.

"She looked terrible- thin, tired, and her arms were riddled with bruises in the distinct shapes of hands. There was so much to say, but we knew we were being monitored, so we really didn't speak. I told her I was sorry for leaving, for becoming the one thing she had been trying to escape from in the first place, and she also apologized for all she had done and such. Then, after the ten minutes were up, Molokov himself came to fetch me, and with only a cold glare to Svetlana, he shuttled me out of the place."

At this Freddie was shocked- he understood that Molokov was ruthless, but harming a woman physically had always seemed something beyond him. Apparently he was wrong.

"Next, I was taken to an office, where I was told to sit. I waited for at least an hour before Molokov returned, and when he did, he questioned me. He wanted to know if Svetlana's words were truth, and if I planned to start a relationship with her, as soon as her divorce was finalized. I told him all he wanted to know, and then he left for another period of time. When he returned, he seemed agitated, and cut into me again. He said I had to play chess for The Soviet Union again, and that I was going to win. He said I must form a union with Svetlana and our daughters, so as to appear benevolent to the press, and that I had to tell him what I knew of you, Florence, Anatoly, Svetlana, and D'Courcey. I told him I was never going to play chess again, and that I would only try a relationship with Svetlana if she wanted to, as any sane man would, but that apparently wasn't what he wanted to hear, so he slapped me. When I went to retaliate, Molokov had two men restrain me, and then, after kicking me a few times for good measure, he locked me away in the basement where Svetlana was." Dmitri explained, shuddering just slightly.

"So he wants you to play chess for The Soviets, after you lost? I would have guessed that they would be furious with you and cut you off." Freddie reasoned.

"I thought the same thing. I had planned to slip quietly into the background- I figured they would be glad to be rid of me and I could go back to having a semi-normal life."

Freddie couldn't help but produce a small chuckle at this comment.

"For us, even a semi-normal life is out of the question now." Freddie chortled bitterly. "I remember Florence once mumbling something to the extent of 'never make a promise or plan.' I guess she was right- you can never keep your promises and nothing ever goes as planned."

"You're still quite hung up over her, aren't you? Even more so than when I spoke with you at the ending of the match. I didn't realize you cared about her that much." Viigand stated, deviating from the present subject of his encounter with and escape from Molokov.

"You have no idea." Freddie huffed, "I love her. I spent weeks trying to nurse her to health both mentally and physically after we returned from Bangkok, and even then she still chose Anatoly- I even loved her enough to call him and make him come back here."

Dmitri listened sympathetically from his chair, the end of his mouth turning up in a sad, crooked smile.

"You can't make her love you back, that's one thing I've learned, anyways."

"I didn't even tell you the best part." Freddie laughed dementedly, pounding his palms on the wide armrests with an air of amused misery. "She's pregnant! With his child! And then they ran off to the country for a fucking holiday!"

Dmitri's eyes widened, very much caught off guard by both the nature of this development and the way in which Freddie presented it.

"When...?" He gaped.

"Sometime before the championships she thinks." Freddie fired.

"Well... that's..." Dmitri attempted, only to be shot at by Freddie, who replied rudely:

"It's fucking shit is what it is."

Dmitri was considerably shocked by this news, yet he was also awaiting the chance to complete his tale of Molokov and Svetlana, so after giving Freddie a few moments to collect himself, he cleared his throat and continued.

"Back in the basement..."

"Ah yes. Sorry, please continue." Freddie grunted, cracking his knuckles.

"Yes, so, in the basement, Svetlana and I talked some, still sort of around the main issues. She told me about you calling Anatoly, all in metaphors of course, so Molokov has no idea. She said she hadn't seen her girls in weeks and they had been trying to get her to submit to them, to give in and take everything she said back, and to use the girls against Anatoly, but she won't, she says she owes it to him to let him get out." Viigand mourned, clearly empathetic towards his former lover. "Svetlana said that from what she can gather, Molokov wants to lure Anatoly into a difficult lineup for next year's championships, create some sort of scandal, and draw him back in. He wants to turn everyone else against him so that the only place he can go is Russia."

Freddie continued scowling down at his hands, attempting to draw the deepest meaning from Viigand's words. He tried to think like Molokov, like a traitorous, malignant rat. As he wrestled with his task, Dmitri lamented another point.

"Although I guess now, with Florence pregnant, a scandal is practically right in front of him. I'm sure there's some way he can twist it into something awful."

"I would have to agree with you- he seems to be capable of nearly anything now." Freddie related. "So what happened next?"

"Well, after a few days, he returned for me and once again locked me into an office. He wanted to know what he had to give me in order to get me to play again. I told him Svetlana and her daughters were to be allowed their own house, free of any restrictions. I told them that she should be allowed to settle where ever she wanted to, even if that included Western Europe. Molokov laughed in my face and said that that would be difficult to arrange. I told him that was the only way I would do it, and he said I wasn't worth it, and started to leave." Dmitri sustained, with some difficulty.

The large Russian man now focused solely on Freddie, clearing his throat in the hopes that Freddie would do the same. Complete contact established, Dmitri continued with a great degree of guilt.

"You have to understand, I was desperate, and I knew that there was no way I was going to convince him to give in."

"What... did you do?" Freddie ordered, now grasping that whatever was coming next was going to be something he would not like.

"I told him I could get him someone better, someone Anatoly wouldn't expect and wouldn't be able to handle."

"Viigand..." Freddie warned.

"I told him I could get you to play again, and that your return would throw him so much that he wouldn't even be able to function, especially after you and Florence..." Dmitri quavered.

Freddie was furious for only a moment, letting the magnitude of this situation sink in, letting it take effect. Yet his anger soon subsided as the opportunities within this unfortunate predicament proclaimed themselves.

"Please, you've got to help me. Molokov is awaiting my word, from you, that you'll play. I have only until tomorrow to let him know, he threatened me with death and Svetlana-"

"Shut up, Dmitri." Freddie snarled, an intricate plan already taking shape in his complex mind. "I'll do it. You can call Molokov and tell him that I want to play. Although I have my own conditions- you're my playing second. You know Anatoly's mind, his style. And you can also tell him that another stipulation of this deal is that Svetlana and your girls are relocated to the free world, Paris, to be exact. I believe that's where the next championships are, and it will be best if we train there too."

Now it was Dmitri's turn to be stunned, and following a moment's respite, he moved on to a grateful stream of chatter, very much out of character for him.

"Freddie, I don't know how to thank you!" He stammered, still significantly shell shocked.

"Don't, you're not the only reason I'm doing it. Just go call Molokov and tell him I am waiting for his call." Freddie charged, begining to turn towards his chess board with the intention to play, for the first time in weeks.

"I will." Dmitri concurred, rising with an air of a man compelled.

"And Dmitri." Freddie added.

"Yes?"

"Be careful, all of you."

"Of course."

Without another word, the sizable blonde Russian exited Freddie's apartment, leaving Freddie to commence in a quiet reunion with his game.


	30. Please Read This! :

Hello everyone, I hate to say this, but I have to put a bit of a hold on this piece! I am busy preparing for NaNoWriMo and will be putting Chess Continued to the side until December 1st. There still could be updates, but I would not count on it! Until then, if you want to read my NaNo novel as I write it, check out .- I will be posting it as I go! Also, I wrote a oneshot for Florence and Anatoly set just after the final endgame, so check it out and review! I promise I will be finishing this story!


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